


Foreigners of Hell

by Airanke



Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: Gen, I do not know what I am doing with my life, but here we go, slay me
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-31
Updated: 2017-08-10
Packaged: 2018-10-13 10:07:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 26,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10511574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Airanke/pseuds/Airanke
Summary: The Loa had not forgotten him. Neither of them (also posted to FF, under same author name, and same title).





	1. Deserted

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first time posting to Ao3 and I am rightly intimidated by the newness of this all-- but I digress. I love Vol'jin too much to be happy with how Broken Shore turned out, so it's time to make Vol'jin into a demon hunter. Because I can. Hope you enjoy it!

It was lonely on the shore. 

Green blood fed into the ocean. Like the plant life, the ocean seemed disgusted by the blood. The tide was low. It refused to come in. Even the wind had died down.

A storm was growing out on the water - there was a screech, then cracking bone, then a dark laugh. Cruel eyes watched as an Eredar head rolled down the sand. An unseen force stopped it just short of coming in contact with the water.

U’thel hefted his glaive up to his shoulder, stabbing the other one into the body that still twitched. He wiped the back of his hand over his lips, smearing blood.

For a moment, he stared at the back of his hand, wondering why his blood was still _red_. It had been years, maybe even a decade since he had been dragged down the path of the demon hunter. To his knowledge, he was the only troll that had followed it.

It hadn’t been difficult. Staking out the Illidari, dodging detection, slipping unseen in and out of the shadows. He’d earned his keep. Made his own armor; made his own blades. Hammered the glaives into shape, using the sketches he had made as his guide.

Wielding them had been a different story. U’thel had been no warrior, and the weight of the glaives had been unbearable at first. He’d trained himself until he could lift them with ease, like they weighed no more than a feather. Sometimes, U’thel even forgot when he was holding them.

As time had passed, he felt the Loa grow distant; they lurked, certainly, but they seemed as disgusted by him as the ocean was with the blood that dribbled into it. Sometimes their presence was more tangible; sometimes he could reach out and trace the air, and feel their essence. Sometimes they reached back.

But he hadn’t _heard_ from them in years.

Something was happening on Azeroth, that much was clear. U’thel hadn’t seen these many demons in one place for a long while, not since he’d made his way back from the Outlands. He’d secluded himself to this place - the Broken Shore - hoping that he could continue his life as an outcast, free of the troubles that plagued the rest of the world.

As fate would have it, some idiot managed to summon a massive chunk of the Legion.

“All de mo’ _fun_ fo _me_ ,” he muttered bitterly, shaking his hand as if disturbed by the sight of his own blood. He grabbed the glaive, jerking it clear of the body, and hefting it onto his other shoulder.

What had led him down this path, he didn’t know. The pulsating red of his tattoos had once led him to think Hakkar was at fault, reminding the troll too much of blood on any given day. He was still often distracted by how the tattoos illuminated areas around him, tinging them with red; tinting his gray-blue skin.

But that Loa was lost to him; most of them were. Perhaps all of them were.

Still, this loss didn’t explain why sometimes he felt them so thickly around him.

Perhaps U’thel was not as lost as he had led himself to believe. He still prayed. He still sought them, expecting nothing for his troubles. He’d lapsed before, angry, feeling forgotten - the troll shook his head.

The wind had picked up again, and he looked down.

“Whoops,” he sighed, tipping his head back to look at the churning sky. He’d done it again, wandered up to one of the highest points on the shore. If anyone from Dalaran paid even a sliver of attention, they would have noticed him by now.

Would have noticed him when he caught a ride on a gryphon, grabbing its foot, dropping silently onto one of the buildings after the city had abruptly appeared in the skies above him. It had piqued his curiosity, happening shortly after two separate armies came bearing down on the shore. But he was _certain_ that the mages would pick up on him after he released the gryphon’s foot - and if not them, most definitely the warlocks.

U’thel had to admit, he was rather disappointed with the archmages, and the warlocks - and the Illidari, on top of that.

Maybe the troll had been _just_ out of their senses. He hadn’t moved to wander about the city, after all.

Still, U’thel was miffed they hadn’t been able to pick up on his presence.

“No mattah…” he said to himself, his shoulders rising and falling with a heavy breath, “ya tried it once befo’. It didn’ work den, it won’t be workin’ now.”

He jumped off the point, letting himself free fall for a moment. It made his heart pound like it had the first time he’d jumped - only, that time, he hadn’t intended to survive the fall.

But U’thel did.

Damn his troll blood.

He let his wings materialize and spread when he was a quarter of the way to the ground. Down he floated, watching the imps scurry away, frightened by his shadow. He deliberately landed on one, crushing it under his foot, a pleased sneer crossing his lips. It broadened when the other imps whimpered, and he sent a growl in their direction, making them cower further.

U’thel left bloody tracks in his wake. By the time he reached his little grove, the blood had been tread off his feet.

This small part of the shore had managed to retain its life. Lush grass, fully leaved trees - one of the little things that U’thel appreciated.

He checked his foot, deciding it was safe, grateful to feel the grass tickling his foot instead of being seared away. His glaives clattered against each other as he dropped them on a black blanket, made up of the hides of yaks. He stripped off most of his armor too, especially the heavy pauldron. It fell to the ground with a thud, the magic in the skull’s eye sockets fizzling out into black smoke.

The only part of his armor that remained was the thick leather pants, and the mail guards U’thel wore over his shins, speckled with demon blood. The belt was dropped over the pauldron.

U’thel rolled his shoulders, sighing, and sat himself down in front of a little stone slab he’d found. It was covered in candles, but kept clean of wax. He stared blankly ahead, a weariness coming to his young face.

Leaving the candles unlit, he crossed his legs, letting his arms rest over his knees. He curled his first finger and thumb toward each other, leaving his second finger extended. The tattoos that covered the majority of his left side pulsed.

Meditation was one of the few comforts he had, because it stopped the demonic whisperings in his ears. Sleep came easy but was often restless. At least when U’thel meditated, the fel magic in him calmed, ebbing and flowing like a river instead of raging like the maelstrom.

Better to meditate than to wish for a conversation with another living, breathing creature, even if it was just a bird.

It was _lonely_ on the shore.


	2. Twisted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oh, hey buddy, how you doin-- murderin demons, a'ight, SOUNDS GOOD FRIEND.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (( ALSO WHOOOPS I kept forgetting to update it here, XD! I'll do my best to rmb to update this one, so that it's all caught up to the one on FF.net! Which is on chapter 6 atm... ))

It was cold.

It was _so cold_.

The chill was only made worse when other spirits flowed through him, as if he weren’t there. They always looked back at him though. Desperate for _something_ , and he couldn’t put his finger on it. All he knew was immediate to himself. Blackness to his right, as if there was no eye there. A creeping sensation expanded from a spot on his abdomen, crawling through the magical veins coursing through his body like centipedes.

A sickly, bright green, all too familiar to him.

The sight of it made his spectral hands shake with anger.

It wasn’t _supposed_ to be _him_ . He wasn’t done. There was no one to take his place, no child, no shadow hunter, no other chieftain. Who was going to carry his people in his absence? He only knew that he had gone and made a _forsaken_ warchief, and for what? Was it the concern in her voice, was it the fact that she seemed to genuinely _care_ , was it the fact that she listened to him when he told her not to let the Horde die, was it how she was the only one who kept a cool head in the situation--

Did the Loa _really_ have _anything_ to do with his choice, or had he claimed that truth to make himself more comfortable in his decision? He didn’t even trust her.

Only one thing gave him reprieve from these looming questions to which he had no answers, and it was hunting.

Time was lost in the twisting nether, the place where magic extended itself, from which warlocks drew the majority of their power.

Which meant, demon souls were plenty.

He tore through the torrents of souls to rip them apart the moment he saw them. Rage drove him to sink his ghostly fingers into the demon souls, pulling and tearing at them until they were nothing more than scattered particles.

And when that was done, and his blind rage subsided, he wondered: what had he _done?_

Even demons did not deserve to suffer a fate as absolute as that.

There was a crack in the curving flow of souls then. It got his attention, cutting his thoughts short; and though he wanted to go to it - finding it familiar, and _warm_ \- he could not make himself move.

The haunting red eyes and twisted grin, looking like sharp teeth had been embedded into flesh, were as intimidating as they were entrancing.

But the spirit was gone after a moment, shattering into a thousand pieces, and Vol’jin was left to the cold once again.

 

* * *

 

U’thel felt like he had been hit by a freight train.

He lurched to his feet, dazed and staggering, before dropping heavily to the ground, surely bruising his knees. Ragged gasps were not enough to fill his lungs with the oxygen he needed, and he raised burning fel eyes to the slab of rock he’d been meditating in front of.

Flames mocked him, every candle lit.

Sweat ran down U’thel’s face, and he grasped at his chest with one hand. All of his weight shifted to the other, and he focused on breathing to the best of his ability. Anything to soothe his aching lungs. He lowered his forehead to the grass after several minutes.

It had been _normal_. A normal hour spent normally meditating in front of a normal slab of rock with normal unlit white candles.

_Perfectly,_ **_normal_ **.

U’thel had not expected to be enveloped in utter blackness.

He had not expected the overbearing presence of a Loa.

Before U’thel could even focus on who it was, he found himself looking at the tumultuous twisting nether. His mind had been so slow with coming to grips with where he was that U’thel didn’t even have the time to be shocked.

A dark hand had pointed over his shoulder then, gnarled fingers, long claws at the end of each. The ominous presence could have only belonged to _one_ Loa, but U’thel’s stomach was churning as that presence bore down on him like a yolk. So thick, and heavy, that U’thel found himself gagging.

_“I wan’_ **_dat_ ** _one.”_

The voice was a whisper, coming from all around U’thel. He looked ahead, swallowing rapidly to stop the bile rising in his throat.

U’thel vaguely recognized the shape of the spirit that the Loa had pointed to. The taint of the fel was obvious.

_“Ya be gettin’ me dat one.”_

U’thel barely managed to shake his head, and then he was struck upside the head. White spots danced in his vision, followed by a searing hot pain racing along his spine. His mouth dropped open in a soundless scream.

And now he was being crushed under the weight of water. He clawed at his throat, staring up at the surface. A moon shone, but it was a sickly green, and even if U’thel _knew_ in the back of his mind that this was a dream - a horrible, terrible dream - it did nothing to ease his fright when his demon eyes saw the sleek outlines of sharks slicing through the dark water around him.

_“I_ **_won’t_ ** _be_ **_denied.”_ **

The voice was terrible now; a ragged howl, tearing holes in the sky above before something reached down and grabbed U’thel by his hair, yanking him out of the water and throwing him toward the beach--

Which had been the cause of his current state, as he had quite literally been thrown back into reality.

When he had finally calmed his body, U’thel raised his gaze to the candles. They sat there, still flickering. Night was beginning to fall over the broken shore, the sun’s last rays reaching pathetically through the branches of the trees.

The troll scowled.

“Ya wan’ me ta do sometin’ fo ya?” he sneered; the flames were whipped by an unseen force, and once again U’thel felt the crushing weight of a Loa. He felt as though a heel was grinding into the back of his neck, and he clenched his teeth.

“Aftah _all dis_ **_time_ ** _?_ ” U’thel snarled. The weight on his neck lifted. Half the candles on the slab were snuffed out, the smoke curling up into the darkening sky. U’thel pushed himself up until he was sitting back on his calves, fel green eyes fixated on the slab.

With a growl, he got to his feet, squaring his shoulders.

“ _Fine._ ”

The candles were relit.

U’thel took five steps forward, sitting himself back down in front of the slab. He assumed his prior position, arms resting over his knees.

“Den tell me _exactly_ wat I be doin’ fo ya.”

No sooner did the wind whisk the words away from his mouth did U’thel find himself back on the beach.

His gaze shifted to the sky; the moon was there, the same sickly color, the water ahead still dark, light and sounds absent.

The presence of the Loa _this_ time around, was much less discomforting.

“I be Dambala,” a voice whispered; not the one that had made the demands. U’thel kept his silence.

“On de shore, you be findin’ a broken tusk. Take it.”

U’thel hesitantly nodded his head, and though he was unable to vocalize the question nagging in his mind, he knew the Loa would give him an answer.

“You bring it back here. You light half de candles, and Lukou be speakin’ to ya. She be tellin’ ya wat you do next.”

A rumbling in the distance reminded U’thel of the storm that had been brewing on the waters - but this rumbling was a laugh, and there was no storm brewing in this dream world.

“You will see da worth in de years ya spent trainin’ ta use only de light.”

U’thel sniffed, rolling his shoulders. He closed his eyes.

_“You will see dat we nevah abandoned you.”_

U’thel opened his eyes.

He took a moment to absorb what he had been told.

It was irritating to think that he would have to cut a line through demons just to _get_ to the sands of the broken shore, but he supposed it would be worth it in the end.

That, and the thought that he might no longer have to be _alone_ was all the real encouragement he needed to go through with the task.

He inhaled deeply, and in one breath, blew out all the candles.

Tomorrow, he would sharpen his blades.

He would see this task to completion.


	3. Broken Teeth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> THE LOA ARE HILARIOUS OKAY GUYS!?!?! Okay.

Rain water fed the grove in the early hours of the morning. At some point in the night, the storm had finally made it’s way over the broken shore. The rain was soothing, in a way, and U’thel had spent the better hours of his morning letting the cool drops wash over his skin, and fur, where he had grown it.

 

Unfortunately the rain also washed the war paint off his face, leaving rivulets of sooty black and vibrant red to run down his neck and chest.

 

U’thel sighed, shaking his head. He got up, ignoring the rumbling of his stomach. He would deal with that later; he always did. For now, he had a task to complete.

 

He picked up his glaives, taking them over to the forge he had made. As he had decided the previous night, he began to whet his blades against a stone on the forge, the strokes rhythmic. Such an action was like clockwork to him, and U’thel’s mind wandered elsewhere as he worked.

 

Cutting through the demons would be the easiest part of his task. At the same time, he couldn't afford to make any mistakes; he had been able to mask his presence from the demons with relative ease, though he felt that had more to do with them being preoccupied than anything else.

 

Naturally, U’thel couldn’t risk cutting down too many demons either. That would be suspicious, and surely garner attention - it had happened once before. U’thel had been unable to go to the far west of the shores, as a Pit Lord had stationed themselves there. Taking on the massive demon would have been easy, but the fight would have lasted too long, and then the fact that there was a demon hunter on the shore would have gotten out.

 

The troll paused in his actions, lifting his blade away from the stone.

 

As it stood, the demons believed the assaults to be coming from Dalaran, or at the very least, the demons believed that the mages up there were sending warriors down to the shore.

 

Which made sense, considering the fact that up until Dalaran had even appeared in the sky, U’thel had been living his life of solitude in relative peace.

 

He shook his head, moving on to whet his second blade. The rain still fell, still soaking his skin and fur where it wasn’t blocked by the leaves above.

 

A scoff left the demon hunter. To think, that perhaps he had been guided here by the very spirits he had assumed to have abandoned him out of disgust for what he had become. That perhaps he was here specifically to fulfil this single purpose of bringing up another demon hunter like himself.

 

U’thel jerked up his blade, barely touching it to his forearm. It cut into his flesh, and he grinned.

 

_Perfect._

 

He leaned his blades against the forge, striding to where he had dropped his armor. He took it into his small oiled tent, using a cloth to wipe off the drops of rain before he fastened it back onto his body; belt first, of course, then pauldron. U’thel reached under a pile of crudely made pillows next, pulling out a pair of cuisses. He didn’t normally wear them but… today he thought it better to be safe than sorry.

 

After all, finding a broken _tusk_ that was most assuredly buried in _sand_ was going to be quite the time consuming task. Much more difficult than dealing with demons.

 

U’thel released a heavy breath as he strapped on the cuisses. With that in place, he proceeded to use a darker, crusted cloth to wipe his smeared war paint off his face. It was easily reapplied, and he glanced at himself in a large shard of mirror.

 

A red, toothy grin stared back at him, and his fel eyes curved as he smirked.

 

With that done, U’thel left his tent and returned to the forge, hefting his blades onto his shoulders.

 

The moment he set foot outside his little grove, crackling footsteps went ahead of him.

 

He was startled at first, watching them go with suspicious eyes. They stopped at the end of the path that led down toward the sands, crackling.

 

Tentatively U’thel followed.

 

The footprints stayed several strides ahead of him, speeding up as U’thel did, and slowing when he did. The troll was amused. He followed the crackling until it shrivelled up, a warm presence sweeping through him, whispers humming in his ear.

 

Unlike the whispers of the fel, these ones were soft like the rain; they definitely belonged to a Loa.

 

U’thel crouched behind a large rock, peering around it at the beach that stretched ahead of him. There were a few fel stalkers here and there, trotting along in packs, or hugging close to the side of a fel guard. They dotted the beach. U’thel hummed, pushing the tip of one blade into the sand.

 

“Show me,” he muttered to the air, feeling that warm presence hovering at his shoulder. A bolt of lightning ripped through the sky and struck the beach, a violent clap of thunder in its wake. The sound startled the fel stalkers; they yipped and howled, darting away from where the lightning had struck, and scampering up the path that U’thel had come down.

 

He held his breath, pressing his left side into the rock to diminish the glow of his pulsing tattoos; he stayed like that until the clattering feet of the fel stalkers faded into harmless echoes.

 

Moving away from the rock, he peered around it again; all that remained in visible distance on the beach was the fel guard, and two fel stalkers. When U’thel squinted, he could see the silhouette of shivarra in the distance, and the telltale shape of succubi.

 

Turning his head toward the left, he saw four Eredar. He should deal with them first, then worry about the fel guard, _then_ worry about where the lightning had struck.

 

He sincerely doubted that finding the tusk would be _that_ easy.

 

Swiftly he ran along the beach, hugging close to the cliff face. His strong legs took him up a large rock, from which he leapt off. He descended on the Eredar in silence, his sharpened blades cutting two in half as he passed in a rush. He kicked up a spray of sand as he sharply changed direction, lopping the head off the third before the other bodies hit the ground; he slammed one glaive into the beheaded corpse.

 

The fourth Eredar had made to run to the fel guard, and U’thel channeled red fel energy into his hand. A smaller throwing glaive materialized in his hand, and he grunted as he threw it with great force. It embedded itself in the Eredar’s back, and he let out a howl of pain.

 

With heavy strides the fel guard made his way toward the sound, axe gripped tightly in hand. The fel stalkers sprinted ahead of him, snarling; U’thel snarled in return. He abandoned his glaives, flipping over the fel stalkers in favor of taking down the fel guard first.

 

Siphoning magic into his legs, he pushed off the sand, sending waves of it in all directions. In the air, a more demonic form flickered around him, and he slammed the palm of his hand against the fel guard’s face as the demon raised his axe to strike.

 

His head was crushed down into his neck which was crushed into his sternum, and after a brief hesitance, the armor crumpled as U’thel forced the fel guard’s head right through his body, all the way to the ground.

 

U’thel jerked his hand out of the fel guard’s body, unintentionally back handing one of the fel stalkers. He couldn’t see past the pauldron on his shoulder, but he heard the sounds of it hitting the sand.

 

He turned on his heel, thrusting his fingers into the throat of the other fel stalker as it leapt at him, mouth agape. The Eredar was trying to drag himself to safety.

 

But no demon would ever be safe from a demon hunter.

 

U’thel carelessly whipped his arm to the side, sending the fel stalker toward the rocks. When he reached the Eredar, he yanked the small glaive out of his back. The scream of pain that followed was music to him, and U’thel plunged the weapon through the back of the Eredar’s neck.

 

Green blood gushed out of the wound.

 

A loud snarling reminded the troll that there was one fel stalker left, and he waited until it jumped toward him before throwing the small glaive again. This time, his aim was true, and the glaive dug into the fel stalker’s throat.

 

Silence fell over the area, followed moments later by the pattering of rain. U’thel huffed as he straightened himself. He stepped over the Eredar, taking quick steps to reach his glaives. He picked up the one he had dropped, then yanked the other out the body he’d stabbed it through. Both were then secured to his back, and U’thel surveyed the beach, squinting his eyes.

 

Where had that damn bolt of lightning struck again--?

 

“Huh,” he mused, stalking toward a patch of burnt sand. He crouched when he reached it, brushing his fingers over the grains. It still felt warm, and the smell was off. U’thel sifted through it, but, as he had expected, there was nothing.

 

Save for the crackling footprints, which now appeared right before U’thel. He stared at what appeared to be feet for a moment, then hesitantly raised his gaze.

 

He could barely make out the shape of the Loa, the spirit seeming to be made of thunderclouds, veins of lightning flickering through them at random intervals.

 

It wandered further down the beach, and U’thel gasped in air. His fingers twitched against the sand; since when had he opted to hold his breath? Did this Loa make him _that_ nervous?

 

U’thel shook his head, rising to his feet. He followed the path the Loa left, his other senses focused on detecting demons, if there were any around. The demon hunter felt no small amount of unease when he picked up on nothing fifteen minutes after opting to follow the path this strange Loa made.

 

There were _always_ demons on the beach, and for those few Eredar and lesser demons to be the _only_ ones U’thel had to fight was worrisome--

 

A sigh of relief left him.

 

The crackling feet had diminished again, warmth seeping through U’thel’s limbs once more as the Loa retreated.

 

Demons were scattered over this lower part of the beach. U’thel was glad to know that they were here. He glanced over his shoulders, then glided toward a copse of rocks. He peered over them, pursing his lips; an impressive number. They appeared to be gathered around something, mostly fel and wrath guards.

 

Fingers prodded at U’thel’s sides, and he released an exasperated sigh.

 

“Wat’chu want?” he hissed under his breath, “ya bettah not scare off mah prey dis time.”

 

The air around him seemed to undulate with laughter. A soft wind pushed against U’thel’s face, forcing him to look to his right. His eyes widened in bemusement.

 

There, sticking out like a sore thumb against the wet sand, was a tusk. It was at least a hundred paces away, and U’thel’s attention was brought back to the demons. The urge to slaughter them all was slowly building, and he dug his fingers into the rock, reaching back to trace the tip of one finger over a blade.

 

“I be wantin’,” he muttered, “ta sate mah blood lust.”

 

Lightning crackled through U’thel’s veins, and a manic grin split his face. His shoulder blades split too, wings erupting from them, and with a snarled battlecry, U’thel bore down on the demons, looking very much like he belonged with them.

 

His strong claws cut through their armor like it was butter, rending flesh from bone with ease. He didn’t stop tearing at them, even after his metamorphosis faded - it only meant he had to put his sharp glaives to good use.

 

The strength of the storm only grew as he tore through the demons. U’thel’s quick feet kept him from sustaining heavy damage, and his parries were always followed by swift retaliation.

 

By the time he was done, the sand was soaked with demon blood, and the rain pounded against U’thel’s shoulders. His breathing was labored, and he tipped his head back to meet the rain, eyes closed tightly. It washed the fel blood off him, and at the very least, cleaned the smaller wounds he had received: two gashes on his chest, one on his unguarded bicep, and a small incision on the right side of his face. He was sure there was a cut or two on his back as well, but he paid them no heed.

 

Rain water slipped past his parted lips, quenching the thirst that now came upon him, and sating the hunger in his stomach. He lowered his head, letting the rain run down his neck, and over the taut muscles of his back.

 

Crackles in the air reminded U’thel of why he had bothered to come here in the first place.

 

His feet led him away from the warm sand soon enough, eyes intent on the tusk that still sat protruding out of the sand. He repositioned his glaives against his back, getting down on one knee to observe the broken object.

 

Part of U’thel didn’t even _want_ to touch it. The tusk was slightly thicker than his own. He didn’t need to hold it to know that. Plus, this tusk clearly belonged to someone the Loa favored.

 

U’thel was too proud to admit he felt he was unworthy of taking the tusk.

 

He sighed heavily, then carefully wrapped his hand around the tusk. He pulled it free of the sand, and immediately brought it up to his own tusk. He knew better than to take something like this and not leave anything in it’s place. Another sigh left him, this time in relief: his own tusk was just barely the right length and thickness.

 

Using the nail on his thumb, U’thel etched into his own tusk where the one he held reached to. It would leave a little over a third of his tusk remaining. Without much thought, U’thel balanced the broken tusk on his thigh, and gripped his tusk on either side of the etching.

 

He inhaled, snapped his tusk in a swift movement, and exhaled.

 

Now he held both pieces of tusk side by side, muttering under his breath. The one he had been sent to retrieve had a leather band on it, gold rings on the ends, and golden studs equally spaced around it. U’thel pursed his lips to one side in thought, then he slid the leather band off, and put it on his own.

 

He then stuck his broken tusk into the sand where he had found the one the Loa had requested him to find.

 

“Back home den,” he sighed, rolling his shoulders. If he was quick about it, he could get all the way back up the path before any other patrols came by. He first kicked sand over the tracks he had left when he moved away from the carnage, retracing those steps back to the pile of corpses.

 

U’thel moved swiftly, weaving through the rocks, careful not to pick up anymore fel blood on his feet. Sure, he hadn’t bothered with that fact the other day, but crushing an imp underfoot was different from killing fel and wrath guards en masse.

 

Once he returned to his grove, he deduced that it had taken him a little over two hours to get the tusk - naturally, it would have taken him less time if he hadn’t gotten distracted by the overwhelming itch to slaughter demons.

 

He took a moment to set the tusk he had retrieved on the slab of rock covered in candles; his little altar, he supposed.

 

Using a rod of metal he kept on hand, U’thel set about breaking his other tusk. The imbalance bothered him, and he chucked the part he broke off into his tent. Then, using a small dagger, he cut the tusks into a more pointed shape. Lastly, he used a makeshift file - sandpaper glued to a plank of wood - to smooth out the edges. He peered at the mirror, turning his head to the left and right. He decided that this haphazard attempt at fixing his tusks would do until he had the time to spare to even them out.

 

Next, he opted to expand his tent, noticing with a chuckle that the rain was no longer falling into his grove.

 

He was definitely going to need some more supplies after this, and he didn’t have much clothing to spare, and even less armor. U’thel still had some of his older weapons, but they could definitely use a polish, maybe even a few minutes under the hammer…

 

U’thel sighed heavily.

 

His gaze shifted back to the tusk on the altar, and he spread out the pillows and fur blankets in his tent as he searched for his flint.

 

Sure, the demon hunter was capable of using fel flames, but that was no way to commune with a Loa. He needed natural fire, untainted by demons, and so, he would use flint.

 

It was a meticulous task, but two minutes later saw U’thel assuming his meditative posture in front of the altar, half the candles lit.

 

This time, he found himself in a building, instead of on the beach. It shocked him, and his eyes darted to and fro. There was a large window ahead of him, made up of vibrant colors: stained glass. The image was of a troll woman, children at her feet.

 

U’thel wanted to sneer.

 

A _church?_

 

It had been little over a decade since he had ever set foot in one.

 

As a demon hunter, he felt a slight aversion to such holy places.

 

“Ya don’ seem ta like _my_ visions.”

 

The female voice came from behind him. She was louder than Dambala, and U’thel shrugged his shoulders, furrowing his brows. Like in his previous two dreams, he couldn’t move his legs, but unlike them, he found he was able to raise his arms. He waited to see if this Loa - Lukou, he remembered - would do anything else.

 

A finger traced up U’thel’s spine; he shuddered, baring his teeth at the stained glass ahead of him. Being forced to stare at something so bright and colorful made him all too aware of how lonely he really was.

 

“Shhh,” Lukou had finally moved into his sight, pressing a pale finger to his lips, “ya be havin’ a companion soon, mon. He gonna’ need you as much as you gonna’ need him.”

 

“I may be lonely as fuck, but I don’ want ta be _needin’_ _nobody_ ,” U’thel snarled through his teeth, finally finding his voice. Lukou was unperturbed, and she moved her finger to poke him in the forehead. He flinched as a white hot line of magic seared its way through him, causing his pulsating tattoos to bleed into a more cream color.

 

“Ya no shadow huntah, but you’ll do. Especially when I be considerin’ what ya once were.”

 

U’thel had half a mind to cuss her out, but he bit his tongue against the words. The last thing he wanted was to be reminded of his past, and he didn’t want to run the risk of angering a Loa.

 

He’d already almost done that.

 

“Ya be needin’ a skull. Preferably a troll skull. De demons dat be around ya, I’m sure dey have one. Shango be helpin’ ya wit dat but, dis time?” she lowered herself until she was looking U’thel in the eye, hers blazing white, “ _don’_ be givin’ inta ya blood lust, demon huntah. We be needin’ ya.”

 

U’thel averted his gaze, his mouth twitching in a soundless snarl. Lukou continued to stare at him.

 

“... why do I need a fuckin’ skull?” U’thel growled, keeping his gaze askance. Lukou hummed, and enveloped him in a warmth that made the demon hunter squeamish. While comforting, there was a malice there, as if it were a campfire that would erupt into a blazing hellfire at the twitch of a finger.

 

“A brain needs a safe place ta form. A tusk needs a home. And we need a vessel. You get dese tings fo us, and we be doin’ da rest. Ya be a witch doctah once, if a young’un. You know wat ta do, U’thel.”

 

His eyes snapped open moments later.

 

“... oh ya, sure!” he hissed to the sky, exasperated, “I know wat ta do exactly! Voodoo shit dat be speedin’ up de regeneration process!”

 

He let his head drop forward as he ran a hand through his platinum blonde hair. He could feel the rage building.

 

A decade without a word from them. A decade without so much as a whisper. A decade spent in utter solitude, and when other life forms appeared, they were the thing he trained so vigorously to hunt down and murder in cold blood.

 

It U’thel wasn’t so _desperate_ for a companion of some kind, he would have let the Loa strike him down.

 

His stomach growled, and the troll released a groan as he flopped over onto his side.

 

“Uuuugh, I don’ wanna go git anytin--”

 

Three seagulls abruptly dropped into the grove, their feathers singed. U’thel stared at them, unamused - then he sneezed due to grass tickling his nose.

 

“ _Very funneh_ ,” he muttered, turning an accusatory glance at the sky. The angry storm clouds were beginning to roll away, finally allowing some rays of the sun to reach the drenched earth.

 

U’thel groaned again, then pushed himself up on his arms. He crawled over to the seagulls to set about ripping out their feathers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so slow at updating this fic RIP ME..... OH WELL I'MMA TRY. Oh yeah. In about chapter 7 or smth there's going to be a sudden change in the way the Loa and U'thel and Vol'jin talk to each other because I figured out how to write them "speaking" Zandali, so there will be a noticeable lack of accent RIP. LEARNING AS I GO HOI --STICKS LEGGY OUT--


	4. Cracked Skulls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I love my chapter titles they're so Not Obvious.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apparently I decided I'm going to haul ass and post basically everything I've gotten written so far LMAO. ALSO I NEVER KNEW PEOPLE COMMENTED ON THIS??? LMAO HELP ME I'M SO NEW TO AO3-- SO THANK YOU to Linukati and Nonny for your sweet comments //weeps
> 
> ALSO Nonny no, U'thel has not had a friend since becoming a demon hunter. The boy is friend deprived. He needs A Friend. You will find out everything else in due time u w u /

A troll skull.

 

U’thel tapped his nail against the piece of tusk he had. There was a nagging thought in the back of his mind that he _knew_ who it had belonged to but… he couldn’t place it. After spending so much time devoting himself to the ways of the demon hunter, there were many things he had forgotten.

 

He hadn’t even remembered how to get _home_ , and that was the main cause for him seeking refuge on the broken shore.

 

A sigh left him.

 

If he wanted to find an appropriate skull, it had to be one that was missing a tusk - or perhaps, one that was missing half a tusk, while retaining the other.

 

He pressed his fingers to his forehead, furrowing his brows; what if the spirit he was tasked to retrieve from the twisting nether brought its prior injuries with it? Then it wouldn’t matter _how_ the body was formed. The spirit would alter it.

 

A short chuckle left U’thel, and he shook his head. All he needed from the tusk he had was a small piece of it. That small piece alone would carry the dna required by the regeneration spell to regenerate the correct body. Some things might be missing, of course, but the skin, the muscle, the facial structure would all be the same.

 

The man had seen it happen before, when he was child. It had been the most _fascinating_ thing. That ritual had been the reason why he had wanted to become a witch doctor in the first place.

 

He thought more about it; slept on it. Woke up the next day to bright sunshine and _more dead seagulls_ because apparently the Loa considered themselves _hilarious_.

 

U’thel prodded at the birds, wrinkling his nose in distaste. He pulled the feathers off of them anyway, then gutted them. Normally he would bury the guts a ways away from his grove, but he hesitated.

 

These guts would come in handy to distract any malign spirits from the soulless body that U’thel would encourage to regenerate. He didn’t need any spirit entering the body that he didn’t _want_.

 

A hand brushed over U’thel’s shoulders and he let out a snarl, “I _know!_ I’mma git dere, ya gonna be patient!”

 

He glowered over his shoulder at nothing, then set about cooking the birds as he had done the previous evening. He stitched together a makeshift bag for the guts, dropping them inside to use later. U’thel had initially started burying the guts away from his grove to prevent the stench from giving away his position; it had turned itself into a habit.

 

When he remembered to eat normal food, anyway.

 

Honestly, the troll would rather consume demon flesh over these lanky birds.

 

A word of disapproval whispered in his ear. U’thel swatted his hand at the air next to his ear as if to bat the speaker away, baring his teeth.

 

“Look, ya didn’ say nothin’ when I was gorgin’ m’self before. We be cannibals fo a long time befo de orcs came an’ made us change our ways. I’ll eat demon flesh if I wanna’.”

 

Now he just felt stupid, arguing with something that was there as much as it wasn’t. The Loa could damn themselves! U’thel wasn’t going to change his ways just because they disagreed.

 

“Ya asked me ta git a skull, den make a vessel, den git a spirit - ya didn’t ask me ta fuckin’ change how I live,” he muttered after a moment, then devoured the birds. He picked out his teeth with a bone when he was done.

 

With a huff he got to his feet, and went about donning his armor once more. He put on a simple chest piece this time, especially since he would need to go into more obviously demon territory. While the leather wouldn’t keep him as protected as plate, or chainmail, it would provide him with the mobility he need to get in, and get out.

 

He had to do this without being seen, and if he was, he had to take out whoever saw him.

 

The crackling footprints appeared outside his grove when he made his way to the split in the trees. He glowered at it.

 

Then hesitated.

 

Hadn’t Lukou said something about Shango giving him a hand?

 

The demon hunter pursed his lips, “Shango.”

 

In response, the footprints crackled all the more. An unamused smile crossed U’thel’s lips, “great. Ya anothah Loa o’ de shadow huntahs-- don’t _cackle_ at me, ya--!!” he made a series of nonsensical growls, instead of outright calling the Loa a twat. The footprints seemed to cackle incessantly at U’thel’s objection to the sound.

 

“Listen here, ya clevah bastard,” U’thel hissed, jabbing a finger at the footprints, “if ya gonna’ help, den help, if ya ain’t, den _go away_.”

 

Sparks lit up the form in front of U’thel, and for a brief moment, the demon hunter was in awe. Lightning snaked through Shango, giving him form, and it was clear one of his brows was raised, his mouth turned up in amusement.

 

Snarling, and with reddened ears, U’thel stormed around the Loa - who followed him, of course.

 

“Ya lot makin’ it right obvious dat de spirit I’m gettin’ belongs ta a shadow huntah. Seems like a pretteh important one,” he jumped off the small rise instead of walking down the path, gliding down. To his dismay, the crackling footsteps followed him _through_ the air.

 

“C’n’t say I evah tought dat Loa like _you_ would bothah wit someone like _me_ …”

 

He dropped to the ground, rolling his neck and shoulders when what felt like electricity coursed through his body. A snarl died on his lips.

 

“Yeeeah _fuck_ you too,” he hissed. He was rewarded with more cackling. Obviously, Shango found him _incredibly amusing_.

 

The trek to demon territory wasn’t too long, and as he had done before, U’thel sought refuge behind a rock to observe the area. He knew there was a crypt somewhere, housing who knows _how_ many bones. He would certainly find the skull he sought there.

 

A hissing noise prodded in his ear, and U’thel looked over his shoulder in annoyance, “whaddya’ wa _nt holy_ **_fuck_ ** _.”_

 

There, perched next to him, was a stormy looking hawk. The fact that it had one brow cocked made it clear that this was Shango, but for the Loa to actually _show_ himself to U’thel was humbling, at the very least. Out of reflex, U’thel hesitantly lowered his head in a show of respect, as much as his raging mind would rather _not_ give it.

 

With another cackle, Shango abruptly enveloped U’thel in his wings. Shadows swirled at the demon hunter’s feet, and he felt as though there was a turbulence around him. Against his will, the Loa started pushing him out from behind the rock.

 

A patrol happened by, and U’thel threw up his arms to defend himself--

 

But they passed by as if they had never seen him. Not even the fel stalkers turned their noses toward him.

 

The seconds ticked by as U’thel processed what was going on, slowly lowering his arms. Shango must have bestowed him with some blessing, and after another urging prod from the thunderhawk behind him, U’thel lurched forward, his steps unsure.

 

A minute later saw him sprinting through the camp, green eyes seeking the crypt earnestly.

 

“No, nope, nooope, no--” he pivoted around a shivarra, who stopped in her steps, looking about herself confusedly. U’thel kept going, opting to put his trust in the Loa for once.

 

“Sonuva-- oh _dere_ you be!” U’thel grinned, grabbing the edge of the doorway to the crypt. He stilled for a split second, closing his eyes. No demons. He swung himself inside, curling inward to take the brunt of the impact on his unguarded shoulder. With a grunt he rolled to his feet, reaching up to massage the muscle. There wasn’t any real damage done.

 

But there _sure_ _were_ a lot of skulls. He ignored everything that didn’t have tusks, picking up several only to drop them back on the piles.

 

Demon skull, demon skull, troll skull but female, demon, demon, orc, demon, tauren, night elf…

 

He stuck his hand under an impressive looking demon skull, tongue poking out of his lips as he concentrated. He could feel a tusk… then another, then several others. How odd for the demons to hide troll skulls beneath a large demon skull.

 

“Okie, well, let’s be havin’ a look,” the demon hunter muttered, pulling out two skulls. One was smaller than the other, both with two tusks intact. He dropped them to the side, uninterested, and continued his search. Shango hissed in his ear, and U’thel rolled his eyes.

 

“Look. Alla’ ya’s wanted me ta git a skull. I’m not gonna’ waste mah time comin’ _all_ de way here, an’ jus’ take de first skull I be findin’! Fo a shadow huntah! Ya _crazy_ , mon,” he hesitated, inspecting two other skulls; they were similar to the first, and thus, discarded to the side, “or mebbe _I’m_ de crazy one, since I be talkin’ ta someone who won’ be talkin’ back ta me anytime soon.”

 

The thunderhawk chortled, causing U’thel to release an exasperated sigh. His fingers happened over a skull that had a cavity that felt nothing like an eye socket - he jerked it out of the pile immediately, displacing several other skulls. They clattered against the floor, and with a flurry of curses, U’thel darted to a different corner of the crypt, settling himself between two large piles of skulls.

 

Imps came racing down the steps, ignoring Shango, and unaware of U’thel. The demon hunter set his attention on the skull in his hands.

 

The cavity ended up belonging to a fang, but he noted with interest that one of the tusks _was_ broken, and it was the tusk on the right at that; the same side that U’thel was certain the piece he had was from. The thickness was different, and there were a few other cracks in the skull, but he decided he could fix those with relative ease, because apart from them, the skull was intact.

 

“Jus’ needa’ git a fang,” he eyed one of the larger skulls he’d pulled out. He waited until the imps scurried away, deciding that nothing important had occurred. U’thel approached the large skull with quick strides, and wasted no time grabbing the appropriate fang and yanking it away. He would be able to size it properly when he was back at his grove. Better to have one too big than one too small.

 

He turned to eye the thunderhawk perched on the pile of skulls behind him, “‘ow much time I got left eh?”

 

Shango tapped his foot three times, and U’thel exhaled, “well, _das_ gonna’ be tight. Betta git a move on, den.”

 

Really, he hadn’t expected the Loa’s blessing to last him _this_ long, but with only three minutes to spare, U’thel had to put his leg muscles to good use. He tore a line straight down the middle of the area, narrowly avoiding any demons that happened down that way. Several of them barked in alarm that _something_ was there, and U’thel couldn’t help but release a howl of laughter as they swung blindly at nothing.

 

He himself barely made it behind a rock before ripples of blue sparked around him - no doubt the Loa’s blessing finally wearing off. U’thel sat down, taking a moment to catch his breath while inspecting the fang he’d grabbed against the skull he’d chosen to complete his task.

 

The fang was slightly bigger than what he needed; good. Easier to sand it down than to build it up, as he had already established with himself. If he could get it to the right shape, it would fit perfectly into the space.

 

U’thel inhaled deeply, then exhaled, leaning his head back against the rock. Shango had once again assumed the form of nothing more than crackling footprints, and he started off, back in the direction of U’thel’s grove. The demon hunter sneered, but got to his feet nonetheless.

 

The Loa were sure an impatient bunch.

 

Here U’thel was, trying to make sure he could regenerate a proper vessel, and they were trying to hustle him along.

 

He bit his tongue against making any comments - the last thing he wanted was to incite their wrath, even if he would give anything to speak his mind. No matter. He trudged his way back to the grove, stopping every twenty steps to put his concentration into detecting any demons. Not entirely odd that none were on patrol, but a fact that U’thel noted warily.

 

He was just one on an island crawling with demons, after all.

 

Once safely back in his grove, he went through the motions of stripping off his armor once again. He set the skull next to the tusk on his little altar, and set about meticulously sanding the too big fang, checking its size against the other constantly until he got it to the shape he wanted. Then, using the dust from the sanding, and some sticky tree sap, U’thel formed a simple paste. He added a drop of water to thin the paste, and after applying a small amount to the fang, and a small amount to the cavity, he held the tooth in place for five minutes.

 

It was solidly in place, and so, he used the rest of the paste to mend the cracks.

 

“Hokay, now dat dat’s done…” U’thel pushed himself to his feet with a huff. He took a moment to stretch, sighing as the bones in his back popped - then it was back to his task. He bent over to pick up the fixed skull, admiring it for a moment before setting it on the yak fur he normally put his armor on, placing the tusk next to it.

 

He had resisted his urge to slay demons this day, however, and there was no need for that.

 

“Time fo ya ta make yaself useful,” he muttered as he picked up the bag of guts he had set aside. He arranged them into some semblance of a pile after removing them from the small sack, then made a slit in his forearm with one of his nails. Using his blood, he drew several sigils over the short grass.

 

“If only I had sometin’ ta offah, den I could be safah ‘bout dis,” he shook his head, “no mattah. If ya’s get in a fight, keep it away from me.”

 

Crackling lightning answered him, striking the guts. U’thel quirked a brow, unamused, then turned back to the skull.

 

He didn’t know if the troll he was going to fetch would be ill upon being returned to his body, and without a proper offering to make, he was unsure if Itzul would stay at bay, or if he would come to claim the ill.

 

U’thel pushed all thoughts of the sacred devourer to the back of his mind. Blood still flowed from his wound, and U’thel took advantage of that. He drew the necessary sigil on the forehead of the skull, then made a line of blood down the length of the broken tusk before clipping off a part on the end with his nail. He set that small piece on the tusk of the skull that was broken.

 

He felt a warm presence enveloping him then, no doubt Lukou. He was stunned to see his normally red tattoos bleed into a golden hue, burning brightly like the sun; quickly U’thel placed his hand on the skull.

 

It was _fascinating_ to watch sinew snake out from under his hand, wrapping around the skull. Even more intriguing was how the spine formed, then the sternum, and at the same time the ribs shot out of the spine before disconnecting and setting themselves in the right place. Then the arms, and snagging them, more sinew, more muscle, and by the Loa were those veins?

 

U’thel caught a brief glimpse of a heart forming, then lungs, before they were covered over by muscles and veins and _blue skin_ that was tinted with green, and mottled in parts. Still, U’thel kept his hand pressed to the forehead of the skull, an odd giddiness sweeping through him.

 

He could feel the muscle and veins shifting under his palm.

 

By the time the feet had finished forming, U’thel found himself feeling absolutely drained. His tattoos bled back into red, and Lukou’s warm presence departed from him. He sat himself down, letting his head droop, though his ears flicked in his attempts to catch any other sounds.

 

So far, nothing had tried to take the body.

 

Raising his head, U’thel analyzed the fresh corpse. Red-orange hair rested limply against the face - and it was one he recognized, but he’d be damned if he could put his finger on a name. It must have been someone he had seen, but never gotten to know, and never heard anything about when he was in the Outland, pretending to be as interested in raiding the Black Temple as everyone else.

 

His eyes searched the rest of the body, noting it to have some fur, skin mottled with a darker blue. He was certain if he measured the height, he would be disgruntled; even lying down, the body looked taller than him.

 

Upon his gaze returning to the face, U’thel was amused to note that there was a beard forming on the chin; red, like the mane of hair on the head.

 

Fighting fatigue now, U’thel set about digging spare garments from his expanded tent. An extra loincloth, and spare leather pants weren’t too hard to find.

 

“Tough luck dat dey won’t fit right, buddy,” U’thel said with a snort. He yanked each piece of clothing onto the body, slitting the ends of the pants so they could rest more easily over the ankles - then he slit them a little higher up the calf, so that they wouldn’t be pulled so tight over the muscle.

 

He didn’t want his soon to be companion to be _too_ uncomfortable. The other man would be making his own clothes though, especially given that’s what U’thel had had to do. Make his own clothes, his own weapons, his own armor. At least he had sketches and dimensions for this other fellow to use as a guide, and his own, older gear. Surely the other man would be able to make something of what U’thel already had.

 

And with the body prepared, all that remained was to fetch the soul.

 

U’thel sat himself down in front of the altar, taking up his meditative posture. He’d started meditating without any candles lit when he’d first been struck with a vision of the twisting nether, and so he left them unlit.

 

Thankfully, it was not long before he was plunged into darkness, his stomach lurching as if he were falling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YOU WILL ALSO DISCOVER THAT I AM HORRIBLY LONG-WINDED AND THAT I LIKE TO TALK A LOT--


	5. Who you are (in the dark)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is a very specific way I see Bwonsamdi and I'm not backing down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And I continue to obsessively post chapters. Also I now know how to tan deer skin. I decided that tanning works the same way for sea lion skin BECAUSE I'M LAZY ABOUT MY RESEARCH sometimes I'm so sorry //weeps silently

“Finally.”

 

U’thel perked up instantly upon hearing the voice, a bead of sweat rolling down his forehead. At some point he had stopped falling, landing softly against a black expanse of nothingness.

 

Shortly after that, candles erupted into being all around him, shining brightly and dancing like the stars. If anything, their appearance had only served to make the demon hunter more nervous. This was not the vision he had expected.

 

“You be here,  _ finally _ .”

 

But  _ that voice _ .

 

The same voice that had pointed out the drifting spirit to him. The same voice that had turned into tearing howls, and the same voice that was all around U’thel in a whisper.

 

Only now, it was louder, as if the Loa were lurking over his shoulder.

 

U’thel found he could move, and he turned around, “Samedi.”

 

The Loa grinned toothily at him, exposing sharp, bloody teeth. U’thel swallowed, and spoke again, “Bwonsamdi.”

 

“Hah!” Bwonsamdi cackled, his laugh shaking the area around him, and sending a frightful chill down U’thel’s spine, “dat be me, yes.”

 

“Ya gonna’ send me ta de twistin’ nethah ta git de soul’re not?” U’thel asked, keeping his voice void of any snark. This was the Loa that had ground his heel into U’thel’s neck a few days prior, after all. It would be unwise to entice Bwonsamdi’s temper.

 

“I be in no rush, unlike de othahs,” the large troll mused, leaning his head against his fingers. He sat on a throne made of bones, one that U’thel was barely able to make out the features of. If only the candles would stop their constant flickering, it would be easier to  _ see _ .

 

“You be makin’ me curious, mon. A demon huntah, bu’ a troll… an’ all de same,  _ not _ .”

 

U’thel felt as though his muscles had seized up. His body was rigid and he looked askance.

 

“De blood o’ anotha’ flows in ya veins~” Bwonsamdi purred, the sound laced with taunts. U’thel merely nodded his head.

 

“If de subject o’ mah heritage is wat ya be wantin’ ta talk about, Bwonsamdi, den wit all due respect,” U’thel turned his gaze back to the Loa, “I be tinkin’ I might jus’ take mah leave.”

 

The space echoed with Bwonsamdi’s boisterous laugh once more. The candles closest to the Loa went out, and U’thel immediately back pedaled toward the candles that were lit. His heart hammered in his chest; unwise, unwise!

 

Bwonsamdi towered over him, smoke pouring out of his mouth. He exhaled vocally, and U’thel saw puddles of black blood pooling near his feet.

 

“You be o’ great  _ interest _ to de Loa, U’thel - an’ make no mistake. I be knowin’ dat last name ya have, but I was  _ sure _ dat ya learned ya lesson da  _ first time _ ya had a tongue wit  _ me _ .”

 

U’thel trembled, but in defiance he used what anger was still in him to glare at the Loa. As frightened as he might be, U’thel wasn’t going to back down.

 

“Ya might be scary, Bwonsamdi, bu’ if ya do anyting ta me den ya lose ya shot ta git ya shadow huntah back,” U’thel managed a smirk when Bwonsamdi straightened, glowing ember eyes narrowed, “don’ ya?”

 

The silence was tense, and empty, until Bwonsamdi burst into raucous laughter again. All of the candles relit, and U’thel released a shaky breath as Bwonsamdi sat himself back down on his throne of bones.

 

“Clevah, very clevah boy!” Bwonsamdi grinned, his teeth less bloody than before, “I tink I be likin’ ya!”

 

U’thel merely dipped his head, then set an impatient gaze on the Loa. Bwonsamdi’s grin faded to a smirk, and he held out a hand. Green and white twisted together in an orb that hovered above his palm.

 

“De twistin’ nethah.”

 

The orb expanded, and U’thel saw a demon soul form - then immediately, it was attacked.

 

“Look how angry he be. Dat fury be de fury of a demon huntah, no?”

 

“You be right,” U’thel said, watching as the spirit that looked undeniably like the body U’thel had created ripped at the demon soul until it was nothing more than wayward particles. The most intriguing thing was to see the torment that crossed the troll’s face; how he looked at his hands, undoubtedly wondering how he could do such a thing to something that was so  _ sacred _ to the trolls, demon soul or not.

 

U’thel turned his gaze back to Bwonsamdi, whose features were muddled behind the murkiness of the twisting nether, “why didn’ ya take him when he died? Ou’sida’ de fel taint, o’ course.”

 

Bwonsamdi’s expression darkened, several candles going out again - this time, however, U’thel didn’t falter. The Loa’s anger was not directed at him.

 

“He be claimin’ a false truth,” Bwonsamdi snapped his fingers, and the window to the twisting nether faded, “an’ I be displeased. Banishin’ him ta de twistin’ nethah fo a time was a right punishment fo wat he did.”

 

U’thel nodded his head. He didn’t need to know  _ what _ this false truth was. He needed to get the soul in the body first.

 

“So? Befo’ sometin’ else makes a home outta’ de body dat was prepared?” U’thel asked, his expression one of expectancy now. Bwonsamdi pointed over U’thel’s shoulder, and U’thel looked.

 

“Here we be,” the Loa mused, and once again U’thel found himself across from the spirit he was tasked to retrieve. He stood still, for a moment, and noted that the spirit was looking at him, the feet shifting as though the spirit wanted to go to him.

 

U’thel stepped forward, ignoring every spirit that passed him by. They wailed. They screamed. Some grabbed at him, demanding his attention; U’thel shook them off. The spirit he sought seemed to cower the closer he got.

 

“I may’ve been de first,” U’thel mused as he grabbed the soul; the troll’s eyes widened, and U’thel tightened his grip.

 

“But I won’ be de last.”

 

With a heave, he whipped around, pulling the spirit with him. He didn’t care  _ how _ he got from the twisting nether back to reality. He simply slammed the spirit into his body.

 

It jerked, then spasmed, then sat up with a choking gasp.

 

* * *

 

The first breath was like fire.

 

Vol’jin coughed violently. Everything ached. Every muscle, every fiber of his being, ached, and burned.

 

“Well now, lookit you.”

 

Vol’jin sputtered, and someone pushed him over onto his back. Vol’jin bared his teeth, startled by the glowing red tattoos, and that  _ face _ \- the same face he had just seen. The red under the eyes, the teeth--

 

He tried to crawl back, but the muscles in his body ached far too much. It was all he could do to dig his fingers into the dirt and grass.

 

“Ya definitely seen bettah days, mon.”

 

Grinding his teeth, Vol’jin attempted to speak - but his voice came out in the form of a choked cough. The other troll crouched in front of him. It was too dark to make out any telling features, apart from the obvious glowing tattoos, and the silhouette of demon horns protruding from his head.

 

… demon horns?

 

Rage nearly made Vol’jin blind, and he lunged at the man in front of him with an animalistic snarl. His entire body screamed in agony at the sudden movement, but Vol’jin only cared about sinking his sharp claws into this demon troll’s throat as he tackled the man over.

 

A solid blow was delivered to Vol’jin’s gut, making him heave with a gasp. The demon troll slammed his elbow into Vol’jin’s chin next, knocking his head back. Vol’jin slumped to the side, all his strength leaving him as he tried to get air back in his lungs.

 

“Yeah, fuck dat, I don’ wanna’ deal wit dis right now.”

 

Vol’jin heard the sound of armor clinking together, and he barely managed to glare at the demon troll with his good eye. The red tattoos were vivid against the inky sky - and worse, were those haunting, feral fel green eyes.

 

“See ya in a few, quashi.”

 

There was a splitting pain, and then, darkness.

 

* * *

 

U’thel dropped his pauldron back on the ground, glowering at this fellow - then he took a deep breath.

 

“Easy, U’thel, easy… de guy jus’ got outta’ de twistin’ nethah,” he hooked his hands under the downed troll’s shoulders, dragging him toward the tent, “on top o’ dat he was fuckin’ rippin’ apart demon souls,” U’thel dropped the troll on part of the pillows, huffing, “so he mistook ya fo a fuckin’ demon. Relax.”

 

He pinched the bridge of his nose, agitated - no matter. He would have a few hours before this companion of his woke up, likely with a start. The demon hunter stared at him for a moment longer, then pulled a blanket over him. At least he hadn’t forgotten what his mother had taught him of common courtesy.

 

U’thel wouldn’t lie, though: he was impressed that this troll had even  _ managed  _ to tackle him over after just being returned to a body. Unfortunate for him that U’thel had anticipated it.

 

“Ya musta  _ really  _ pissed Bwonsamdi off, mon,” U’thel muttered, and as much as he didn’t want to admit it, it would be…  _ nice _ , to be able to talk to someone and have them talk back. Even if they might never have a proper conversation, because U’thel couldn’t really  _ see _ himself getting along with this guy.

 

Far too much time spent alone did a number on one’s confidence to be friends with others.

 

U’thel sighed, deciding he needed to make sure he had provisions on hand to offer when the guy woke up, particularly water. A good thing it had just rained - the barrel that U’thel used to collect rain water was overflowing.

 

All he had to do was put bowls full through the fine sieve he’d made. He used it to catch any bits of wood, or leaves that had fallen into the barrel, and any smaller insects that had made their ways inside only to die because they couldn’t get back out.

 

The demon hunter spent a few minutes doing that, filling two flasks - then he filled three more. Who would have thought that having so many extra would come in so handy?

 

Food was the more difficult thing to find - but U’thel knew where to find sea lions, and he figured that his companion would not be too picky about food. He picked up his glaives, hesitating at the mouth of the grove for a moment. Nothing stopped him from looking over his shoulder, flecks of concern hidden in his eyes - then he shook his head, and went quickly on his way.

 

U’thel had no problems with hunting.

 

Except the sea lions were perpetually  _ close to the ocean _ .

 

The very thought of it made U’thel shudder, but what choice did he have? He didn’t want his companion to die of starvation, and he had some serious doubts about the man being perfectly fine with consuming demon flesh.

 

“Not ta mention,” U’thel mused as he watched a colony of sea lions, “it tastes like  _ shit _ .”

 

There was a fatter sea lion basking in the sun, closer to where U’thel’s position was. If he dropped down onto it, he could kill it swiftly, and at the same time, scare the rest of the colony away.

 

So he did.

 

A slash of the claws over the beast’s thick throat, and the wail died in its throat. Blood drained out of the beast, and U’thel snarled at the others, letting his wings materialize. He beat the air with them to intimidate the other sea lions. As he predicted, they let loose a series of barks, and fled into the ocean.

 

U’thel waited for more blood to drain out of the beast he had slain. He pursed his lips, stepping off the back so he could inspect it. The skin wouldn’t be difficult to remove, and he would have to get through the blubber before getting to the good meat. Its bones would come in handy to teach his companion a thing or two about smithing, or even just serve as a start for armor. The leathery skin could be lined with spare cloth, or even yak fur that U’thel had on hand, and then it could be formed into pants.

 

The troll huffed, shaking his head. He was putting too much damn thought into this.

 

In the end, he hefted the beast onto his back, and hustled himself back to the grove. He was relieved to find that the other troll hadn’t woken up yet, and so U’thel went to work on the sea lion. First he filled an extra barrel halfway with water, not caring about bits of wood or leaves. He dragged that over to the sea lion, and pulling a dagger from his belt, he tested it against the hide; it cut through easily enough.

 

He started at the head, making an incision all the way down to the tail - he worked to remove the skin, taking his time to avoid making any unnecessary rips or tears. Forty minutes later and he was finally done, a heavy sigh leaving him. He set every thing aside for a moment, massaging his fingers into his neck, twisting his head sharply to one side to crack it. A pleased groan left him.

 

Then it was back to work.

 

He removed as much excess fat and meat he could from the hide, then immediately dunked it in the barrel of water. He let it sit in there for a moment, setting his attention on the the rest of the sea lion. He cut, and sliced, setting aside most of the fat, but leaving it nestled in the meat where it was too difficult to remove - plus, a little fat never did anyone any harm.

 

U’thel got to his feet, taking a moment to run his hands over the sea lion’s hide, washing off any extra bits of meat and fat that he hadn’t been able to remove with the dagger. Once he did that for a minute, he let it sit again, shaking excess water off his hands. He shuffled into his tent, eyeing the still unconscious troll.

 

Good.

 

The more rest the other troll got, the better.

 

He fetched an older, clear cape of his - it was long, and wide. Perfect to set the meat on for now until he could get around to salting everything.

 

The hide would take longer to cure for tanning, and U’thel didn’t have the privilege of frost magic to freeze anything. He would have to cook it all, and he and his companion would have to eat it over the next two days. The most U’thel could do was keep it cool.

 

After setting the meat on the cape and covering the meat with salt, he turned his attention back to the hide. He had a good handful of soap he’d made after traveling to Stormheim - keeping his identity swathed in dark robes, and his tattooed side wrapped in black bandages - so he fetched one bar, then returned to the hide. It was one of the scentless ones, and he used it to further wash the hide.

 

Once again he let it sit, shaking water off his hands and tossing the soap onto a makeshift wooden desk, where U’thel kept many things covered by an oiled tarp. He cleared some branches away between two trees, muttering to himself. It had been a while since he’d had to stretch a hide, and at least the trees he used were enclosed by other trees. It was difficult for birds to get to the hide that way.

 

Save the small ones, but in the end, most animals avoided the grove due to U’thel’s presence anyway.

 

He pulled the hide out of the spare barrel, and started with poking holes through the top, where there was more fur. Then, he made some holes down the left side.

 

The demon hunter was delicate with his motions, threading strong twine through the holes, and securing them loosely to the tree - he would tighten them all after he had gotten the hide hung up.

 

A low whistle left him when he was finally done stringing it up - what a large beast the sea lion was! He took his time tightening the twine. Sure, he wanted the hide to be stretched, but he didn’t want to stretch it so much that it started ripping.

 

He stepped back after ten minutes, breathing deeply, a satisfied smirk pulling at his lips.

 

“Now den…” he made his way back to the meat he’d left near the entrance to his grove. He struck up a fire with some spare, dry wood, and made a wooden frame big enough to set a rod of skewered meat over. He brushed off excess salt, sneering when it made the fire crackle.

 

As for the brain of the sea lion, he pursed his lips. He was going to need ice for that - then again, he could always put it off, wait for the hide to dry, and then go get another sea lion or two.

 

U’thel nodded - that was, by far, the better option. With no way to keep the brain cool, it would rot, and he wouldn’t be able to use it to oil down the hide anyway.

 

Nor would his companion, but that was another story entirely.

 

U’thel looked over the cooking meat, turning the rod he’d stabbed them on slightly, and then, using the same bag he’d used to hold the seagull guts earlier, U’thel stuffed as much of the excess fat into the bag as he could. He would bury the rest.

 

Picking up the brain, U’thel left the grove, wandering to the cliff that was about fifty paces from the back of the grove. He peered over the edge, shuddering.

 

The ocean breeze was cold, and he could hear the water breaking against the cliffs down below. Hurriedly he tossed the brain and fat over the edge, then bolted back to the safety of his grove.

 

Loa, he  _ hated _ the ocean.

 

A groan left him after a moment of staring at the meat.

 

Right.

 

There was still the guts, and the bones.

 

Agitated, he tossed all the bones in the barrel he’d washed the hide in, then grabbed a handful of the guts and stomped off with them, back to the cliff. Why did he spend so much of his time burying things anyway, he wondered, tossing the guts over the side.

 

Then U’thel recalled.

 

Because being able to  _ see _ the ocean undulate and crash down below always made him freeze, and feel like he was falling.

 

He skittered back to the grove, making one last trip to the cliff to be rid of the rest of the guts.

 

U’thel’s feet were beginning to protest all this running around and standing up, but the troll had one last task to complete before he could let himself sit down. He turned the meat again as he passed the fire, pleased with the smell, and proceeded to the covered table. The soap he discarded on top was slowly sliding down; he grabbed it, then pulled up the cover to squint at the contents on the table.

 

It was difficult to see in the darkness but the fire provided  _ just _ enough light for U’thel to find the bristled brush he was looking for.

 

With both things in hand, he set about cleaning off the bones, muttering under his breath the whole time, and stopping half way through to move the cooked meat away from the fire.

 

Damn, he needed to get himself another slab of rock to set things on…

 

He carefully placed the rod between two trees at the front of the grove to keep the meat off the ground, and to let the gentle breeze the ebbed and flowed around him cool it down.

 

Back to cleaning bones he went. Nearly an hour later the task was done, and he dragged the barrel to the opening between the trees. He pulled the bones out one by one, using more twine to hang the bones all over the trees there, to let them dry. He pushed the barrel onto it’s side, letting the water drain out, and he sighed heavily.

 

Only then did he let himself sit down, and bite into a chunk of meat.


	6. I've sacrificed everything

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Makin' my way down town, walkin' fast, stealing DH voice lines from WoW--

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Vol'jin tells U'thel his name is "Vol" because.. wait I explain why in the chapter. The two suffixes I use, "ji" and "ju" apparently mean "student" and "master / teacher" respectively when affixed to another name. There's a Tumblr post about the Zandali language somewhere, I got that from there RIP.

The darkness was all-consuming. A deathly silence filled the entire space, and Vol’jin trembled.

 

No, this is not what he wanted. He would rather have stayed dead, than be… _this_.

 

Whatever _this was_.

 

Vol’jin clutched at his chest, because it felt like an insect was trying to claw its way out. Like a centipede, or a maggot, or _something_.

 

Why couldn’t he put his finger on anything? Just ‘this’ or ‘something’, was that really the best his intellect could come up with?

 

A tingling in his right eye distracted him from his thoughts, and he reached up from his chest, clawing at his eye. He wanted to dig it out, to _get rid of it_ , but he couldn’t do that here, could he?

 

He inhaled heavily, then opened his eyes. Everything out his right eye was blurry in the dim light, but with his left eye, he could tell that it was barely morning. The sky outside the slit in the tent where he lay was a light gray blue, and it bled into a navy at the edges.

 

Vol’jin found his body still ached - and while he wasn’t entirely surprised that he had regenerated, he was surprised that it had been… so _soon_. He had expected it would take a little over a year at least, especially given that he had only had a tusk to return from.

 

He groaned when he shifted. The pants on his legs hugged more closely to his legs than he liked--

 

Red grin and bright green eyes entered his line of sight.

 

Before the other person in the tent could speak, Vol’jin bolted upright with a start. His skull cracked against the other man’s, who immediately released a flurry of curses.

 

Vol’jin scrambled to his feet, darting out of the tent despite his body’s protests.

 

“ _Git_ **_back_ ** _‘ere!_ ”

 

The shadow hunter’s heart rate skyrocketed, and then two ashen blue arms wrapped around his waist and he was tackled over onto the ground. He grappled with the fellow, the panic building - but with his body in this weak state, Vol’jin was easily overpowered, and he was pinned down within seconds. The other troll got right in his face, teeth bared in a soundless snarl, eyes wide.

 

Vol’jin noticed with more panic that everything he saw out of his right eye was blurry, if not dark in spots.

 

The demon troll sat back, pulling his hands away from Volj’in’s wrists. He straddled Vol’jin’s chest, inhaling an angry breath before jabbing a finger at the shadow hunter’s face.

 

“Ya _stuck wit’ me_.”

 

Vol’jin still found himself breathing heavily, and the other troll sighed, bringing a hand up to pinch the bridge of his nose. He muttered another set of curses under his breath in Zandali, then shifted himself off Vol’jin.

 

He got to his feet, eyes narrowed, “stay dere an’ fuckin’ _relax_ , mon.”

 

So Vol’jin closed his eyes as the other troll stalked away, and brought a hand to his face.

 

What in the _hell_ was going on?

 

He had never seen a troll like _that_ before, and the more he thought about it the more he was filled with disbelief.

 

Hadn’t this fellow said something along the lines of him being the first, but not the last? Vol’jin vaguely recalled hearing about Illidan’s forces when the Horde and Alliance had to travel to Outland - but it _couldn’t be_.

 

A troll? That was a _demon hunter_? No way.

 

The more Vol’jin thought about it, the more it seemed to be true: the tattoos, the fel green eyes, the horns protruding from the other troll’s head. The obvious smell of fel on him.

 

But surely a troll demon hunter would have been the talk of Outland, and that talk would have definitely made it’s way to the capital cities. Vol’jin would have _heard about this_.

 

Footsteps came to a stop next to him, and someone sat down. Vol’jin pulled his hand away from his face, turning his head so he could look at the other troll with his left eye.

 

“Here.”

 

Tentatively Vol’jin pushed himself up on his arms. His back burned with the effort, and he closed his eyes tightly. When he opened them, the demon troll was still patiently offering the bloated flask to him.

 

Vol’jin gave the man a nod, deciding he had no choice but the trust this other individual. He took the flask, bringing it to his lips once his shaking fingers had opened it.

 

Loa, was he _thirsty_. He polished off the flask within minutes. The other troll did not seem surprised by this at all.

 

Vol’jin inhaled deeply, his parched throat and belly satisfied.

 

“I… guess I be ownin’ ya my thanks,” he managed, bringing a hand up to his throat to massage it. How convenient that it had to hurt to speak.

 

“Eh, I wen’ta a lotta’ trouble ta git ya back,” the troll to his right scoffed, shaking his head - though it was clear to Vol’jin that he wasn’t sure how to respond to being thanked.

 

“Who you be?” the shadow hunter ventured, blinking his eyes in hopes that his right would clear. His vision through it remained the same.

 

“U’thel,” came the reply, a harsh undertone to U’thel’s voice, “de Loa didn’ say anyting ‘bout who _you_ be.”

 

“De Loa?” Vol’jin repeated, his voice filled with disbelief. U’thel nodded, his eyes narrowed.

 

“Ya mon,” U’thel’s fingers tapped against the grassy ground, “Dambala seems ta like ya, an’ Bwonsamdi certainly favahs ya - bu’ jus’ cuz de Loa like ya don’ mean _I do_ . Part o’ me don’ even care who ya are, or who ya _were_ , bu’ ya be fel tainted like I am, so ya gonna’ learn ta be a demon huntah,” his eyes narrowed when Vol’jin made to protest, “ya don’ _git_ a choice anymo’ den _I did_.”

 

Vol’jin pressed his lips together, analysing U’thel. He looked like he had been a demon hunter for a little over a decade. His face had the harsh lines of someone who had been alone for an equal amount of time, and given the way he conversed so brashly, Vol’jin wouldn’t be surprised if that was the case.

 

Despite his attitude, he appeared to keep himself well. His platinum blonde hair was kept shaved close to the head on both sides, with a mane running down the middle, starting from a widow’s peak. There appeared to be rough scales growing on his body; a demonic trait, like the horns on his head, but U’thel’s longer fur covered the majority of the scales. His tusks were considerably short - however, they appeared to have been trimmed down recently, or worse, broken.

 

Perhaps of most interest to Vol’jin was the way U’thel styled his facial paint. The entire left half of his face was covered in a soot gray, pulled up along the upper part, and lower part of his ear. But the red… the red seemed to glow like U’thel’s demon hunter tattoos, and made it look as though U’thel had a grin of gnashing teeth. He even had some simple lines under his eyes, and like the marks under his eyes, the grin spread over both the covered half and uncovered half of U’thel’s face.

 

Then, there were his eyes.

 

Fel green irises set in deep green sclera.

 

Vol’jin tore his gaze away to look around him - all the while, U’thel remained silent, no doubt analysing Vol’jin the way Vol’jin had analyzed him.

 

They were sitting in a decently sized grove, and the more Vol’jin looked around the more clear it became that U’thel had been here for quite some time. Rocks were positioned in such ways that implied U’thel had brought them there for a reason. The tent had been smaller at one point, so it was obvious he had been preparing for Vol’jin’s appearance. Pillows, and various furs were around as well; bones hung from some trees near the entrance to the grove, and behind the tent Vol’jin could barely make out a strung up hide, and what appeared to be the edge of a forge.

 

“... how long ‘ave ya been here?” he found himself asking, and U’thel snorted.

 

“Name?”

 

“Vol-- jus’ Vol.”

 

U’thel cocked a brow, and Vol’jin looked at him.

 

“Jus’ Vol,” he reiterated, putting more emphasis into the words. U’thel stared at him for several seconds, then a smirk seemed to pull at the corner of his lips.

 

“Vol’ji.”

 

The shadow hunter blinked at him - then a snort of laughter left him, because it had been _years_ since he had been called _Vol’_ **_ji_ ** **.**

 

“Mon,” he managed through a laugh, “it been years since I be called dat.”

 

“Git used ta it,” U’thel mused, a smile on his voice, “I’m de boss ‘round ‘ere.”

 

“Wateva ya say, Thel’ju.”

 

Now it was U’thel’s turn to look at Vol’jin in utter disbelief; Vol’jin offered him the smallest smile, then gestured to his forehead, “sorreh ‘bout dat.”

 

“Uh--! Wateva’,” U’thel got to his feet in one swift motion, rubbing his hand over the back of his neck, “ya got a hard head. Ya tink mine would be hardah wit’ all dis demon shit I got goin’ on, bu’ no,” U’thel huffed, “dat hurt like _hell_.”

 

Vol’jin shook his head, staying sitting on the ground. U’thel had wandered off behind the tent, then came back offering Vol’jin some cooked meat.

 

“Sea lion,” he explained, looking away. Vol’jin took it, muttering a thanks under his breath. He ate what he could of it, finding his appetite to be absent. Still, it would do him no good to not have _some_ protein.

 

It seemed U’thel couldn’t stand the silence, and he pointed in the direction of the stretched hide, “ya know how ta work leathah?”

 

“Course,” Vol’jin said, picking at his teeth, “why ya askin’?”

 

“Dose be ol’ pants o’ mine,” U’thel pointed at Vol’jin’s legs, “dey obviously don’ fit right. When dat’s done dryin’ an’ stretchin’, ya c’n use it. I got othah stuff lyin’ ‘round.”

 

Vol’jin tilted his head at U’thel, then recalled his question hadn’t been answered.

 

“How long ya been ‘ere?”

 

U’thel’s ears flicked. His entire body seemed to slump, and he shook his head, “too long.”

 

“... I be guessin’ dat ya be talkative cuz ya been ‘ere alone all dat time,” Vol’jin said softly. U’thel looked up at him with blazing, proud eyes.

 

It was clear U’thel wasn’t going to admit to that.

 

“I suppose I should make sure you can speak our native tongue,” U’thel suddenly mused in Zandali, causing Vol’jin to perk up, “aside from keeping a handle on languages, there’s not much we can do about training until you get accustomed to your new body.”

 

The demon hunter scowled then, “so don’t go fucking it up. I had to go to a lot of trouble to hasten your regeneration,” he reached toward Vol’jin’s right eye, making the shadow hunter lean away, his lips twitching in a displeased sneer, “and it looks like whatever damage you got before you died was carried to your soul, and thus your soul has imparted this new body with that same damage.”

 

“A shame,” Vol’jin muttered in response, looking down at his hands. He could feel the heat of U’thel’s hand at his shoulder, but the other troll withdrew after a moment of deliberation.

 

“What took you?”

 

“Fel poisoning, it seems,” Vol’jin muttered, setting his hand against his abdomen where he had felt the centipedes in his dream, “it crawled through my veins, and I suppose, was close to robbing me of my sight when I finally faded.”

 

“Unfortunate,” U’thel said, rising to his feet, and seamlessly slipping into Common, “den again, ya c’n prolly use dat ta ya advantage. Demon sensing an’ all dat jazz, unlike me ya prolly won’ hafta’ be closin’ bot’ eyes. De Illidari be givin’ up deir sight fo demon sensin’, bu’ no’ me.”

 

Seeing as U’thel appeared quite proud of that fact, Vol’jin looked up at him, slipping into Common himself, “why didn’ ya hafta give up ya sight, mon?”

 

“Fuck Illidan, dat’s why.”

 

The words, said with such conviction, startled laughter out of Vol’jin. He caught a glimpse of the lop-sided smile on U’thel’s face - and it brought a certain sadness to Vol’jin, to see that hearing Vol’jin laugh caused some part of U’thel happiness.

 

And just as quickly as it had appeared, the smile faded, and U’thel switched back to speaking in Orcish, “ya bettah git ta stretchin’. I’ll be showin’ ya how ta meditate latah, cuz up until now, de Loa didn’ even bothah wit me,” his eyes narrowed, “so, Vol’ji, when I be sayin’ de Loa like ya, dey must _really like ya_.”

 

Vol’jin nodded, ignoring how similar the student name was to his own, and watched as U’thel walked over to a slab of rock covered in candles. No doubt this was an altar the demon hunter had set up for himself.

 

Part of Vol’jin was tentative about meeting with the Loa - after all, the only one who could have banished him to the twisting nether was Bwonsamdi himself.

 

A bead of sweat rolled down his forehead - but no, he would not make assumptions.

 

Instead, he did as U’thel had told him, and set about to stretching, his face contorting in pain as every inch of his body protested against the movements.


	7. What have you given?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Still stealing voice lines from the DH's in WoW

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Somewhere between starting and finishing this chapter I got my hands on a copy of Shadows of the Horde, and I read it, and I loved it, and I get to reference stuff from it in chapter 8 which I'm almost done writing anD THAT MAKES ME VERY HAPPY. I'm so thirsty for PLATONIC RELATIONSHIPS this fic is going to k i l l m e.

Vol’jin lay on his back, staring at the sky.

 

Judging from the position of the sun, it was around five in the afternoon - and it also meant that U’thel had been meditating for at least two hours now.

 

The shadow hunter heaved a deep breath, rolling onto his side. The splotches of dark in his vision irritated him to no end. It would have been more tolerable if he was  _ fully _ blind in his right eye, not half-blind with blurry images. In a fight, the slightest movement from foliage would likely make him jump.

 

Maybe he could gouge the thing out. It was useless to him as it was anyway.

 

Vol’jin shook his head before rising to his feet. He would have to wait and see what U’thel’s consensus was on that - and as much as all this was cutting down his pride as a shadow hunter, Vol’jin couldn’t ignore his position.

 

U’thel was the experienced one here, and for that matter, had regenerated Vol’jin from nothing but a broken tusk.

 

Speaking of....

 

The red haired troll traced a finger along his right tusk - it came short, the end of it flat with ragged edges. He felt his nose twitch in anger. Seconds later, a growl left him, and he clenched his hand over the damaged tusk.

 

As if having to start from scratch as a student wasn’t a blow enough, having uneven tusks was just as harsh a blow. It left Vol’jin feeling imbalanced, given that his tusks had been so large, and, as a result, quite weighted.

 

He cursed under his breath, raking a hand through his hair. He wanted to leave the grove, but with his body in its current state, and U’thel meditating, he knew it would be unwise to do so. Vol’jin couldn’t let his frustrations get the better of him.

 

Vol’jin opted to wander around the grove instead. U’thel was clearly a self-sufficient fellow, having covered most of his things with oiled furs to keep the rain away. The tent itself looked to be made of heavy leather - given that the other troll was a demon hunter, Vol’jin had a hunch the leather was taken from demons U’thel had slain.

 

The shadow hunter continued to poke around, hesitantly lifting part of a cloth off of what appeared to be a table. There was a variety of self-hygiene products underneath, and Vol’jin released a low whistle, then lowered the cloth back over the table before his curiosity got the better of him. Judging by the shape the cloth took over the upper left, there were books on this slab of wood. Vol’jin moved on.

 

His feet took him to the skin that was being stretched between the trees. It would still be a few more days until it was ready to be worked, and Vol’jin rubbed some of it between the pads of his fingers. He shook his head, finding himself impressed by U’thel’s technique. He must have spent the better part of his years in solitude perfecting more than just his demon hunter prowess.

 

Again, Vol’jin moved, this time running his fingers along the trunks of the trees. They were a deep green, almost, as if covered in a fine moss. The leaves were sickly in hue, but it was clear that the color was deceiving - each tree was healthy, and stood strong, their branches only bothered every now and then by a breeze.

 

He looked over his shoulder at the entrance to the grove. The bones of a sea lion hung from the trees - obviously, they were from the sea lion U’thel had killed while Vol’jin was out. He would have moved closer to inspect them, but the opening to the grove was too tempting.

 

Vol’jin wandered back around the tent instead, watching U’thel for a moment in mild interest.

 

The demon hunter’s shoulders barely moved with each breath he took, and again, Vol’jin found himself impressed by just how well U’thel had trained himself.

 

A glint caught the shadow hunter’s eye, and he turned his head--

 

There was a  _ mirror _ .

 

He stared at it. It was beckoning to him, yet, at the same time, made him want to run with his tail between his legs, so to speak. Did he even  _ want _ to see how he looked? To see how he had changed?

 

Vol’jin passed his fingers over his right eye absentmindedly - then his fingers pressed against the spot where he had received his injury.

 

His feet took him to the mirror despite his inner protests.

 

Loa.

 

Vol’jin raised a shaky hand to his eye. The skin around it looked cracked, as if someone had taken a blunt tool and dug scores into his face. Sickly bright green wisps danced about his finger when he pressed a pad to the skin. The entire thing was pooled with green, like his other eye - except his left eye still had the iris separate from the sclera, sharing only the green coloring.

 

His tusk looked even worse than it felt; he could more easily see the splints in it now.

 

And the point of entry for the fel poisoning…

 

Black lines snaked from the pulsating spot - that same sickening color as his eyes - and like gnarled branches the lines coiled up to his chest, up his arm, and down his shoulder. He wanted to see if his back looked the same, but simultaneously, he wanted to slam his fist into the mirror.

 

Why,  _ why  _ did this new body  _ have to have _ these injuries?

 

Vol’jin realized, with a wheezed breath, that like the mark on his jugular, these injuries were considered scars.

 

What  _ scars _ to have.

 

Any warrior would be proud of them, but to Vol’jin they were forever going to be a sick reminder of the fact that he had been tainted by the Fel, and there was no undoing that. No amount of voodoo, no amount of holy magic, shadow, arcane, fire, ice; no amount of begging or pleading with higher powers would return Vol’jin to an untainted state.

 

Loa it made him  _ furious _ .

 

He clenched a hand into a fist - then closed his eyes tightly. The mirror already had angry cracks in it.

 

Vol’jin’s molten gaze drifted to U’thel. There was no doubt in his mind that U’thel had already broken the mirror once, when the reminders of what he had become were too strong.

 

The shadow hunter’s eyes shifted to the entrance of the grove.

 

Surely, it wouldn’t be  _ that _ difficult to just walk away.

 

But if that was true, why did the very thought of leaving make Vol’jin’s heart pound loudly in his ears?

 

He walked toward the split in the trees regardless, and a twitch in his right eye began. Still, he walked.

 

“And if you leave, what then?”

 

Vol’jin jerked to a stop at U’thel’s voice, oddly calm, speaking in Zandali.

 

“Where will you go?”

 

“Home,” Vol’jin managed, his throat dry, hands clenched tightly into fists.

 

“And you think they’ll accept you back at home, with what you’ve become?”

 

The shadow hunter couldn’t respond, even though he desperately wanted to.

 

“You’re tainted with Fel. They will shun you. Who you  _ were _ won’t matter, because what you  _ are _ is too obvious. The most famous phrase the Illidari claim is that they have sacrificed everything.”

 

Vol’jin could feel U’thel’s presence, and he turned sharply, only to see the demon hunter was still in his meditative stance, eyes closed, fifteen feet away.

 

“I won’t ask you what the fuck that’s supposed to mean, because you didn’t lurk around them like I did,” U’thel continued, opening his violent eyes before turning his head to look at his charge, “but they mean it, in a way. They sacrificed their homeland, their families, their lovers, some still sacrificed their names. The majority of them sacrificed their sight. Some sacrificed their positions. Sure, most of them are blood elves and night elves, and those races are fuckin’ pomps at best. They look down on demon hunters, and spit in the face of their sacrifice.”

 

It was unnerving how U’thel was keeping his voice so calm, and Vol’jin took a heavy breath, clenching his teeth. The demon hunter got to his feet, approaching Vol’jin. He came to a stop in front of him, regarding him with such intensity in his eyes that Vol’jin had to avert his gaze.

 

“What have you given?”

 

Vol’jin’s throat closed up. The question made him ache - it really did. U’thel’s gaze never wavered, and as the minutes dragged on it became increasingly clear that the demon hunter  _ expected  _ an answer.

 

“My life,” Vol’jin finally said, his voice quiet.

 

“And?”

 

“My position.”

 

U’thel’s gaze intensified - but, to Vol’jin’s relief, he didn’t ask about what position it was; instead, he simply repeated his previous phrase:

 

“And?”

 

“My home, some of the sight in  _ this _ eye,” he jabbed a finger toward his blotchy right eye, “my name, my relationships… my brothers.”

 

U’thel hummed, “it’s interesting to me what you value the most.”

 

Vol’jin raised his gaze, eyes pinched inward. U’thel smirked at him.

 

“You stated your life first. It was the easiest one for you to choose, so you value yourself the least,” U’thel crossed his arms, “and you value your relationships the most, particularly these brothers of yours.”

 

The smirk faded to a straight line, “so, knowing what you’ve sacrificed, what does that make you?”

 

The shadow hunter set his jaw in defiance. U’thel saw it, and he pushed himself up onto the balls of his feet so that his face was close enough to prevent Vol’jin from turning his head away.

 

“What does that make you, Vol’ji?”

 

Vol’jin growled, and U’thel growled right back, baring his teeth. The red war paint on his face pulsed, as the tattoos along the left side of his body did.

 

“... a demon hunter,” Vol’jin finally relented, and U’thel settled back on his feet allowing Vol’jin to break eye contact.

 

“Glad ta hear it,” U’thel said, dropping back into orcish, scathing tone returning, “git ya ass ovah here, I bettah show ya how ta meditate b’fah ya do sometin’  _ stupid _ , like, I dunno! Walk outta’ de fuckin’ grove when ya ain’ even familiah wit dat body o’ ya’s yet!”

 

Despite flinching, Vol’jin couldn’t help but chuckle, “I won’ be makin’ ya any promises I won’ be tryna’ leave at some point.”

 

U’thel rolled his eyes, then grabbed Vol’jin by the wrist and pulled him in the direction of his candle covered rock, “don’ expect it - bu’ ya not stupid, Vol’ji, I c’n tell by lookin’ at ya.”

 

He poked Vol’jin in the forehead, making the latter wince, “dere be a smart brain in dat thick skull,” U’thel then jabbed his finger in the direction of the mirror, “remembah,  _ dat _ ting don’ show you wat be hidden. I’m not sayin’ dat ya de same Vol ya always been, cuz bein’ a demon huntah changes ya - bu’ de Vol ya always been, he in dere somewhere. Ya jus’ c’n’t see ‘im.”

 

Vol’jin had not expected these words to come from U’thel, but he knew the young demon hunter was right; the mirror would only show him how he was outwardly affected.

 

And only time would tell, how he was affected inwardly - hell, even U’thel had shown that there was more to him than the anger he projected.

 

“Now si’down, de soonah ya git ta speak wit de Loa, da bettah.”


	8. Keep your fears to yourself

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part 1 of a quote that I will use for the title of ch 9 as well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the longest chapter so far at 13 pages //WHEEZE.

Five days had passed.

 

U’thel had told Vol’jin that it could take a while - and Vol’jin had to admit, part of him was filled with a nervous emptiness. What if the Loa never attempted to reconnect with him again? And what of Sen’jin, his father, what if he had finally turned his back on his son?

 

A sharp pain shot through Vol’jin’s skull and he yelped in surprise.

 

“Stop _tinkin’_ ‘bout shit.”

 

Vol’jin turned his head to glower at U’thel; the demon hunter glowered right back. He flicked Vol’jin in the forehead again, and Vol’jin raised a hand to grab U’thel’s wrist. The latter was only encouraged to repeatedly flick Vol’jin.

 

“Stop tinkin’.”

 

“I be _trying_ ,” Vol’jin hissed, still attempting to stay U’thel’s incessant flicks.

 

“Ya don’ be tryin’ hard enough!” U’thel snapped, “you know wat? De Loa hadn’t spoken ta me fah _years_ . Years, Vol’ji, _years_. Den alla’ de sudden, ya get yaself killed, an’ oh! Would ya be lookin’ at dat!”

 

He crouched, yanking his wrists out of Vol’jin’s hands. Vol’jin kept his palms up, watching U’thel carefully--

 

He didn’t expect U’thel to lurch forward and bash his skull against Vol’jin’s. The shadow hunter slammed back hard against the ground, and U’thel loomed over him, his expression bordering on comedic with how wide his eyes were and how scrunched up his nose was.

 

“Suddenly de Loa be takin’ an interest ta me!”

 

“Terribly sorreh,” Vol’jin muttered, rubbing his forehead - and now his mind ran with the thought that, what if it was another several years before the Loa bothered to show themselves to Vol’jin?

 

The look on U’thel’s face shifted to imply that he regretted telling Vol’jin that it had been years.

 

With a sigh, U’thel sat back, and after a few more seconds, Vol’jin sat up himself. He regarded U’thel with mild curiosity. He stood straighter than most trolls, and his ears were shaped differently - even his hair appeared to be on the more silken side. His features were sharper, almost… almost elven.

 

Vol’jin’s eyes narrowed. Elven?

 

“Listen. I be tellin’ ya befo’, an’ I’ll tell ya again: de Loa be likin’ you. An’ apparently, dey nevah been leavin’ me eithah. Dey always been watchin’. Jus’ nevah…” U’thel waved his arms around his head, “ _dere_ , ya know? You be havin’ mo’ of a connection to dem den I do. Cuz I nevah realleh gave a fuck if dey got back in touch. I jus’ be payin’ my respects.”

 

A frown crossed U’thel’s features and he started digging his claws into the soil ahead of him, drawing a mindless pattern, “I nevah stopped believin’.”

 

It was encouragement enough, Vol’jin supposed.

 

He reassumed the meditation posture that U’thel had shown him, and this time, instead of actively seeking anything, Vol’jin let himself drift. If U’thel could go for years without hearing a thing, then Vol’jin could wait a few days. Weeks. Months, if that was necessary; he could pour himself into this new training.

 

Heavy hands rested on his shoulders, and he tensed. Ahead of him was a full length mirror; Vol’jin’s body tensed further upon seeing his form in the full, unimpaired by the angry cracks that had been in the mirror by U’thel’s tent.

 

“Look who it be,” a voice mused, the grin on it nearly palpable, “ _my favorite.”_

 

Vol’jin breathed deeply, a nervousness coming to him. So he was in Bwonsamdi’s realm now. It was made all the more unnerving when he realized that, apart from the weight against his shoulders, Vol’jin could not sense the Loa. He found it difficult to speak.

 

_Not the right question, then?_

 

The weight on his shoulders slowly increased the longer Vol’jin stared at his reflection. In the mirror, he could make out the telltale signs of blood dripping over him. It explained the wetness that slowly trailed down Vol’jin’s spine.

 

Finally, the shadow hunter found his voice;

 

“I angered you.”

 

The mirror shattered when Bwonsamdi howled with boisterous laughter. The shards came together to form a glaive, and the weight left Vol’jin.

 

Bwonsamdi’s presence hit Vol’jin like a mallet, crushing his chest, knocking the wind out of him. He choked on air, and tipped his head back when the tip of the glaive was pressed against his throat.

 

“Glad you know,” Bwonsamdi said, voice low. He held the glaive firmly in his hand, his back lit by the various candles that had now appeared. Vol’jin held the Loa’s gaze.

 

“Do you be knowing _why_?”

 

“Of course,” Vol’jin answered without hesitance, and the tip of the glaive cut a shallow line down his throat to his collarbone. Bwonsamdi bared his bloody teeth, his amber eyes pulsating.

 

“Why?” the Loa pressed, seemingly dissatisfied with Vol’jin’s response.

 

“Because I be claiming that the spirits told me to make Sylvanas Windrunner the Warchief.”

 

Bwonsamdi grinned; the glaive shattered, and Vol’jin winced as bits and pieces of it cut into his form.

 

“ _Good_ , you truly be knowing why.”

 

Vol’jin lowered his gaze in shame. He _still_ had no real clue as to _why_ he had made Sylvanas the Warchief - apart from an attempt to force her to care about the Horde as a whole. She cared for the Forsaken, that much was clear - but the rest of them? Nothing but fodder as far as she was concerned. Nothing but a means to meet an end, whatever that end might be.

 

“You be unhappy, Vol’jin Darkspear?”

 

A growl nearly left him at the mocking in Bwonsamdi’s voice, but Vol’jin knew better. He kept his composure, then looked up at the Loa.

 

“I don’t be unhappy with my decision,” he said, watching as Bwonsamdi took a seat on his throne of skulls, “but, fine. I am not happy with _this_.”

 

He gestured to himself, breathing deeply, then shifting his gaze away from the Loa, “this is like Pandaria all over again. Who be this Vol’jin? I don’t even know him.”

 

Bwonsamdi laughed, “best be getting to know who this Vol’jin be, then, troll. I still be favoring you. Why else do you think I gave U’thel the task to be bringing you back?” the Loa waved a hand above his head, inciting a vision of the twisting nether, “even the other Loa been offering him their help.”

 

This was news to Vol’jin. He raised his gaze, looking at Bwonsamdi quizzically. The Loa laughed again.

 

“You be having his eyes now,” a horrible grin ripped the Loa’s face in half, “the _defiance_ , the _rage_ , and of course, the obvious taint of _fel_.”

 

Vol’jin growled at the sound of the word - then was taken aback by his own behavior. He would never - surely he knew better?

 

Bwonsamdi, at the very least, appeared more amused than angered by Vol’jin’s growl - and like a child, Vol’jin muttered, “I don’t think I be liking this Vol’jin very much.”

 

A snicker escaped Bwonsamdi, “I be finding this Vol’jin amusing.”

 

“So you be finding U’thel amusing, then?” Vol’jin asked, watching the Loa’s face. The massive spirit was quiet for a moment, the vision above his head fading; a new one took its place, this time showing the grove, and U’thel.

 

The demon hunter was sitting beside Vol’jin, meditating as well - but Vol’jin noted his posture was more stiff.

 

“He worries.”

 

Vol’jin’s eyes tightened and he turned his gaze back to the Loa, “you didn’t answer my question.”

 

Bwonsamdi grinned, “yes, yes. _Just_ like him now, no fear in those bones. I be finding him refreshing. He be holding us in respect, but at the same time…” a chuckle left the Loa, “he don’t be caring who we are. Shango be liking him the most.”

 

A short laugh escaped Vol’jin. He could see that. Shango was electric and curious, and tended toward the trolls who didn’t quite fit the mold. Of _course_ Shango would take a liking to U’thel; the boy hardly fit in any mold Vol’jin could think of, and that wasn’t just because he was obviously a demon hunter.

 

Hell, Vol’jin wouldn’t be surprised if Shango continued to make himself known to U’thel. It would do the demon hunter some good to have that sort of connection.

 

“We be talking again real soon, troll,” Bwonsamdi mused. Vol’jin jerked up his head - unaware that he had lowered it - and found himself surrounded by tumultuous winds. No! He wasn’t ready to leave yet, he still hadn’t seen--

 

Familiar hands gripped Vol’jin’s face.

 

A familiar warmth flooded over him, and it did not belong to Lukou.

 

_“I still be proud of you.”_

 

Vol’jin opened his eyes with a start, his gasp causing U’thel to clap a hand to his shoulder.

 

“Vol’ji?”

 

The shadow hunter said nothing. He blinked slowly, inhaled deeply, then shrugged U’thel’s hand off his shoulder.

 

“I… be fine.”

 

U’thel snorted. When Vol’jin composed himself enough to look at U’thel, he found the younger troll had assumed his meditative posture again.

 

The rest of the day passed in silence. Vol’jin busied himself by doing stretches. U’thel remained in front of his little altar.

 

Vol’jin was unaware he had fallen asleep at some point, but when he woke up, it was to the sound of blades whistling through the air.

 

At first, Vol’jin was tense.

 

Then, he heard a familiar snarl. Shaking his head, Vol’jin pushed himself to his feet. A squint at the sky informed him that it was barely morning. The sun was hardly lighting the horizon.

 

And when Vol’jin turned his head in what he assumed was U’thel’s direction, he shrunk back in fright.

 

Surrounded by blackness, U’thel’s pulsing tattoos and bright facial paint made him appear far more intimidating than during the day.

 

Speaking of facial paint, Vol’jin was reminded that he still had not assumed putting the paint on his face yet, and it was too dark to look at himself in the mirror.

 

A chuckle left him, and U’thel’s movements halted.

 

“Wat’chu laughin’ at, eh, ol’ man?”

 

Vol’jin rolled his eyes, “I don’ be _dat_ old.”

 

“Prolly ol enough ta be my fathah,” U’thel muttered. If Vol’jin had been drinking something he would have spat it out.

 

“Ol’ enough ta be ya _fathah?_ ” he exclaimed, staring through the trees at this other man in utter disbelief. U’thel was silent, and Vol’jin cursed how impossible it was the read U’thel’s facial expression in the darkness. The glowing grin didn’t make it any easier.

 

“... hokay,” the demon hunter must have sheathed his glaives, because he began moving back toward the entrance to the grove, “so ya don’ be as ol’ as I be tinkin’.”

 

“Hell no,” Vol’jin hissed, squinting his eyes at the younger male, “den again, outside o’ names, we haven’ realleh talked ‘bout our selves much at all, Thel’ju.”

 

U’thel appeared to tilt his head. He proceeded past Vol’jin, and Vol’jin watched as he made his way over to the skin that was still stretched between the trees. The shadow hunter crossed his arms over his chest. Moments later, U’thel wandered back toward him - and, to Vol’jin’s surprise, stood just out of arm’s reach.

 

That he could judge Vol’jin’s reach even in the darkness was impressive in itself.

 

“So how ol’ you be den?” U’thel asked, and Vol’jin sighed through his nose.

 

“‘Bout thirteh.”

 

Vol’jin snorted with laughter when U’thel’s eyes widened.

 

“Wat? No.”

 

“Yes.”

 

“ _No._ ”

 

 _“Yes,”_ Vol’jin retorted, a grin pulling at his lips. U’thel appeared to be frowning, but with the sun still taking its sweet time to rise, it was impossible for Vol’jin to tell.

 

“No way in hell…” U’thel muttered, his voice coated with bewilderment, “dat means ya only be five yeahs olda den me.”

 

Vol’jin was taken aback by that, “so you be youngah den I be thinking.”

 

U’thel huffed, “guess so, _Vol’ji_.”

 

The shadow hunter pursed his lips, unamused, “ya sure be having fun calling me dat eh?”

 

“Considerin’ de fact dat you be _oldah?_ Hell yeah. Not ev’ry day dat I git ta call someone Vol’ji an’ have dem be oldah den me.”

 

Vol’jin rolled his shoulders, “fine.”

 

“I be havin’ an extra glaive,” U’thel said, changing the subject, “I c’n give it ta you. So dat you be havin’ sometin’ ta test de weight of befah ya make ya own glaives.”

 

Now this information piqued Vol’jin’s interest.

 

He had already confirmed that U’thel was self-sufficient, but for him to be _this_ self-sufficient was extraordinary. It meant, at it’s basic level, that U’thel had to be a jack of all trades. Making his own armor required him to have not only skills in leather working, but also in blacksmithing, especially for the heavier parts of his armor, like the pauldron and the belt. By extension, he also needed this skill to create glaives, which meant he _also_ needed to have some knowledge of smelting.

 

Before he could stop himself, Vol’jin found himself asking, “I would be interested in knowing how you be making dose blades.”

 

“Don’ worry ‘bout dat yet, Vol’ji,” U’thel replied, a smirk on his voice, “ya gonna’ be learnin’ how ta fight first, _den_ you can be worryin’ ‘bout how I be makin’ my blades. But,” he took a step forward and wrapped his hand around Vol’jin’s bicep, pulling him toward the sea lion skin, “befo’ any o’ dat, ya gonna’ be makin’ yaself some proper clothes.”

 

Vol’jin simply nodded his head, and U’thel set about pointing out the various materials and tools he had available. Strong twine to stitch with, several needles that could be sharpened if needed… Vol’jin wondered where U’thel had even _gotten_ half of his supplies from.

 

He wasn’t given the chance to ask, however, as the moment the sun finally showed itself above the horizon, U’thel handed a dagger to Vol’jin.

 

“Git ta work den,” the demon hunter chirped; Vol’jin watched him stride out of the grove. Vol’jin turned the dagger over in his hands for a few minutes, admiring the ripples in the blade, running his thumb over the bone used for the hilt - then he turned his attention to the skin.

 

It was easy to take his own measurements. Within an hour, he had stitched himself some fitting leather pants, and slung them over his shoulder. U’thel had still not returned, and Vol’jin walked to the entrance of the grove. He looked to the right and left, then made his way back to the crafting table U’thel had shown him a day prior - the one that he had avoided unveiling any further to see what the books were about.

 

As fate would have it, the books had all been notes, and sketches that U’thel had taken from his time in Outland. Vol’jin hadn’t had a chance to look through any of them yet despite being given U’thel’s express permission.

 

Vol’jin debated on whether or not he should bother with cleaning himself up. He’d done so about a day ago, after U’thel had shown him a place enclosed by tall rocks that the demon hunter had fashioned into some sort of bathing area. While it was clear that U’thel rarely fed himself well, the boy seemed to like keeping himself well-groomed. It was yet another one of those things that proved U’thel to be more than capable of taking care of himself.

 

The man sighed.

 

He moved his new pants from his shoulder to a large tree branch, then started peering at the trees more closely. Vol’jin hadn’t seen any fishing rods around, and fishing was one thing that he found quite enjoyable.

 

No matter. He found a decently sized branch, and, using the dagger U’thel had given him, he cut it down to a more appropriate height. Then, using some of the twine he bound it to the end of the rod. He wasn’t sure what sort of things he could catch around the broken shore, though he recalled seeing sharks from the boat on the way over. He took the time to reinforce the make-shift rod, in case he _did_ manage to hook a shark.

 

Vol’jin located a small piece of metal, and put his fingers to work fashioning it into a hook. By the time he was done that, and applying the finishing touches, U’thel returned.

 

He reeked of demon blood. Vol’jin stared at him for a few moments, noting that he was breathing heavily, that his eyes were wild, and that his tattoos were pulsing even more brightly. As if they were being fed by the demonic blood that flowed down U’thel’s face and over his shoulders.

 

“Well!” Vol’jin announced, propping the rod against his shoulder, “it be looking like you did wat you be build fo’, demon huntah.”

 

U’thel cackled, wiping the back of his hand over his lips and smearing the paint on his face in the process. He jutted his chin at the rod, giving Vol’jin a quizzical look, “wat dat be fo’?”

 

“I’m gonna’ go fishing, mon,” Vol’jin said, shrugging his shoulders. The two of them had already gone through all the sea lion U’thel had prepared - and that was when Vol’jin had noticed that U’thel didn’t eat much - and he felt he owed it to U’thel to at least _start_ pulling his own weight.

 

He had not anticipated U’thel to tense at the mention of ‘fishing’. His fingers twitched; his expression twitched in a way that pulled his upper lip away from his teeth. Vol’jin stared at him.

 

“... why in de hell would ya go _fishin’?”_ U’thel demanded, and Vol’jin cocked a brow.

 

“It be someting I enjoy,” he began, then held up a finger to continue before U’thel could protest further, “dat, an’ it be outta’ de way of demons. Last I be checking dere is a lack o’ demon activity to de east o’ da grove.”

 

U’thel scowled, and Vol’jin proceeded to leave the grove.

 

“I be considering changing, bu’ if I’m gonna’ be fishing, I don’ wanna’ ruin my hard work wit’ salt watah,” the shadow hunter commented off-handedly. He left U’thel to stare after him.

 

How curious.

 

_What reason would he be having for tensing up like that?_

 

No matter. Vol’jin spent a moment locating a path down to the ocean from the cliffs; he found one that was rather narrow, but easy to navigate. The closer he got to the water, the more slippery it became; Vol’jin was forced to go slower than he would have liked. With him still adjusting to his new body, however, it was something he begrudgingly did.

 

He reached the bottom of the path, finding that there was a slight drop off to the water - not too far, but if he hadn’t noticed it, he would have certainly misjudged the step and plunged into the lapping water.

 

A circle of rocks broke most of the waves before they reached the bottom of the cliff. About fifty feet away Vol’jin could make out what appeared to be a beach. Ultimately, it was a flat, somewhat slanted rock jutting out of the ocean a good swim from the hidden path he’d taken that caught his eye.

 

That looked like a good place to fish from, not to mention he could cast the line out into the rougher waters, or cast it into the calmer water he stood over.

 

Vol’jin sat down on the path, letting his legs dangle in the water. It appeared deep enough for him to simply jump into, but he winced at the sting the water had. It chilled him to the bone. Once again he found that if he didn’t take it slow, his body might protest by way of seizing up.

 

Ten minutes later found him sitting on the rock. He’d already hooked a small fish, but opted to let it stay on the line to see if it could attract anything else. Vol’jin closed his eyes, enjoying the breeze, and the heat of the sun.

 

The rod was nearly yanked out of his hands.

 

Vol’jin’s eyes shot open with a start, his grip on the rod intensifying so much it splintered. He was startled by his own strength for a moment, then his attention was drawn to the dorsal fin slicing through the water.

 

He grinned.

 

Perfect. A shark.

 

It was a fight. The shark struggled, and Vol’jin had to take a moment to admire its strength. He ignored the burning in his muscles from the effort it took to pull the shark closer, little by little. He was grateful the twine was holding out.

 

Once it was within reach, Vol’jin struck it on the back of the head, then hauled it onto the rock. It still thrashed, and he brought his elbow down on its skull.

 

Though a sharp pain shot up his arm, the shark stilled after a brief moment. The troll knew better than to try removing the hook yet, so he set about to shifting the shark enough that it would rest on the slab and not be a temptation to anything else in the water. It looked to be a small great white, and Vol’jin passed his hand along its side. He closed his eyes in respect for the beast.

 

His ears flicked.

 

Was someone _cursing?_

 

Amused, Vol’jin looked over his shoulder. Someone _was_ cursing, in fact, and Vol’jin watched as U’thel descended from the top of the cliff, carried by his demonic wings, down to a spire shaped rock. He had removed most of his armor, and didn’t have his glaives either.

 

Vol’jin’s amusement, however, quickly turned to concern.

 

The demon hunter clawed at the rock once he reached it, his eyes wide and focused on the water. A swift look over U’thel’s body and Vol’jin could see that his chest was rising and falling with quick breaths. His muscles were tense. There was an obvious fear hidden deep in his expression.

 

U’thel’s breathing began to intensify. Vol’jin, at the very least, knew when someone was hyperventilating.

 

“Thel’ju,” Vol’jin tried, with no response.

 

“U’thel’ju,” he spoke with more force, projecting his voice, but U’thel’s gaze remained focused on the water splashing against the base of the submerged spire.

 

“U’thel!” and then, still garnering no response from the demon hunter, Vol’jin shouted, “ _MEMKI!”_

 

To Vol’jin’s relief, U’thel immediately fixed an angry gaze on him. It was clear he was about to make a retort, but a shark passed by.

 

U’thel scrambled to the tip of the spire, snarling at the large fish as it passed harmlessly by.

 

Vol’jin sighed, rubbing his hand over his face in an attempt to disguise his concern over U’thel’s behavior, “you _have_ ta swim ovah here.”

 

“ _FUCK THIS!”_ U’thel shrieked, then jabbed an accusatory finger in Vol’jin’s direction, “fuck _you_ \--” his finger then shifted to the shark, “fuck _that thing -- and_ **_fuck the ocean!”_ **

 

Vol’jin could only stare at U’thel with wide eyes. It was obvious U’thel was panicked. He teetered precariously on the tip of the spire, hissing insults toward silvery mackerels under his breath.

 

“A’ight, ya don’ be liking de ocean, dat much is obvious,” Vol’jin said calmly, at least bringing U’thel’s attention back to him, “why don’ ya just glide ovah here den? Since ya be on de top o’ dat rock already.”

 

Big mistake.

 

U’thel lunged straight for Vol’jin, and when Vol’jin reflexively reached out with one arm to grab him, the demon hunter raked his claws over Vol’jin’s shoulder and upper back. He cut deep, angry red marks into Vol’jin’s flesh, tearing through even muscle.

 

Vol’jin held back a snarl. U’thel was leaning against Vol’jin’s torn up shoulder heavily, shaking like a leaf.

 

By the Loa, the boy was _terrified._

 

He tentatively raised his other arm - the one that was currently not bleeding profusely - and gave U’thel a pat on the back. The contact caused U’thel to jolt away.

 

It took a few tries, but Vol’jin was able to calm U’thel enough that the boy was willing to listen.

 

“De path I be using is ovah dere--”

 

“Oh _hell_ no--”

 

“It don’ be dat far o’ a swim, U’thel. De sharks will leave you alone,” Vol’jin said flatly. He picked up the shark - still with the hook in its mouth - and shoved it into U’thel’s arms. Still the demon hunter showed no signs of moving, and glared at Vol’jin in positive defiance.

 

The shadow hunter sighed, “I be showing you.”

 

“Wat?” U’thel froze, his fingers curling toward the shark. The expression on his features had shifted to fear once again. His fel eyes darted to the wounds he’d inflicted, then back to Vol’jin.

 

Regardless of U’thel’s thinking that the sharks in the water would attack Vol’jin in a frenzy, the shadow hunter dove into the water. U’thel screeched in what Vol’jin could only describe as a demonic manner, because the sound was _definitely_ not trollish.

 

That, and it caused a number of fish to scatter away from the rock U’thel stood on.

 

Despite his body’s protests, Vol’jin hefted himself up onto the path, then looked over at U’thel after brushing wet hair out of his eyes.

 

His expression clearly said “see it wasn’t that hard”.

 

Snarling, U’thel gripped the shark around the tail, whipped back his arm, and with impressive strength, threw it all the way to Vol’jin. The latter caught it, and took a moment to dislodge the hook; after all, U’thel had assumed pacing back and forth on the flat rock.

 

Vol’jin discarded the rod, and kept what he could of the line. He was able to pierce the upper part of his pants with the hook, and it dangled there, mostly out of the way.

 

U’thel continued to pace.

 

And pace.

 

 _And_ **_pace_ **.

 

He paced for a good three minutes before leaping into the water, propelling himself forward via what Vol’jin could only assume to be a demon hunter technique, and scrambled onto the path where Vol’jin was - cussing under his breath, of course.

 

U’thel fixed a harsh glare on the man, and Vol’jin gave him an unimpressed look.

 

“I don’ recall _asking you_ ta come down here. You be making dat choice yaself.”

 

“Oooooh, _don’_ you be all logical wit’ _me_ , _chaadi_.”

 

Vol’jin shook his head. He couldn’t stop a chuckle from escaping him - then he looked at U’thel with concern once again. The demon hunter appeared to flinch, and he hugged himself, muttering, “an’ don’ be lookin’ at me like dat eithah, fuckin’ hell.”

 

The shadow hunter tended to his injuries once they reached the grove. U’thel had secluded himself to the tent, huddled in the far corner while glowering at Vol’jin.

 

It was difficult, but Vol’jin let the younger troll be, despite his need to know _why_ . He hadn’t expected U’thel to be afraid of the water - or the sharks, or _anything_ for that matter, since he had clearly fearlessly thrown himself into a swath of demons earlier that day. Nor had Vol’jin expected the demon hunter to show remorse for his actions. Sure, it had only been a glance, but U’thel had been told, at some point, that sharks were attracted to blood. That single glance had been enough to let Vol’jin know that he had worried that the blood pouring down Vol’jin’s arm, and back, would attract sharks.

 

Which hadn’t been the case, as Vol’jin had demonstrated by swimming toward the path; the fact remained, though. Furthermore, he already hadn’t responded well to Vol’jin showing concern for his well-being, and so, the shadow hunter deduced it better to let him be.

 

By the time Vol’jin had prepared the shark, he was tired.

 

But U’thel shuffled out of the tent, and ate with Vol’jin in silence, and that was enough of a gesture of acceptance to encourage Vol’jin to remain awake for a few more minutes.

 

He vaguely recalled being dragged across the ground. Next thing he knew several pillows had been dumped on his face, before U’thel stomped off, hissing a string of curses yet again.

 

Vol’jin fell into a dreamless sleep after U’thel’s footsteps faded into the distance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> QUICK ZANDALI LESSON:
> 
> "memki" means "little boy" (I would have preferred to use smth more like "child" in meaning but this is what I GOT SO I'M GONNA ROLL W/ IT)
> 
> "chaadi" means "brother". Please note that this is how U'thel sees Vol'jin - or, at the very least, that's what I'm AIMING for. Who knows if I'll actually be successful :'D
> 
> I'm also P SURE I missed out on some details but I'll try to cover them next chapter but I love the beginning of this chapter okay pls Bwonsamdi stop being horrifying thnx bai


	9. But share your courage with others

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Keep your fears to yourself, but share your courage with others.” —Robert Louis Stevenson

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If U'thel seems somewhat ooc, I apologize - he's been developing quite a bit off-scenes, so to speak, and in roleplays I've been doing with some friends! I tried to go a bit more into his... issues? As a character? From Vol'jin's perspective of course. I'm so tired and just glad this chapter is finally done LMAO.

U’thel stalked the shores. He tore demons asunder with his bear hands - no metamorphosis, nothing but pure rage.

 

He couldn’t _handle_ being looked at in concern; he wasn’t used to it. He hadn’t anticipated that this other troll, this Vol, this _nobody_ would be so quick to learn what U’thel feared the most.

 

Damn him and his desire to fish!

 

The demon hunter only calmed when he recalled that he didn’t have to explain his fear. He didn’t have to rip open his chest and reveal the pounding sinew underneath. It had barely been a week. Two more days and it would equal just that.

 

U’thel stopped his stalking, fel blood dripping off his sharp claws; little rivulets oozed down his arms. Some of the demons had managed to fight back with equal vigor, tearing cuts into his flesh. He ignored the sting, glaring instead at a pair of lightning footprints.

 

Apparently Shango had taken a liking to him.

 

“Fuck off,” U’thel snarled, turning on his heel; as before, the crackling footsteps followed after him. The demon hunter growled low, “oh, so _now_ you be takin’ an interest? Now dat I bring back dis husk o’ a man, an’ you decide ya not gonna’ leave me alone?”

 

The footsteps fell into a deathly silence. Disturbed, U’thel looked over his shoulder. The footsteps were still there, but now a simple blue outline. U’thel’s fingers twitched. His expression was soured by regret - for what, he wasn’t sure.

 

And he hated how the return of the crackle brought him comfort.

 

Hurriedly he made his way back to the grove. Shango followed, and at one point, U’thel felt a sliver of lightning trace down his spine. He caught sight of it snaking down his arm, illuminating his veins, and for a brief moment he was in awe.

 

U’thel shook the wonder away, scowling at the rocks. He opted to say nothing to the Loa now, and when he finally reached his grove, Shango departed. The demon hunter skirted around Vol’s sleeping form, teeth bared in bitterness. He huddled in the furthest corner he could, his angry gaze fixed on the other troll until sleep took him.

 

* * *

 

Vol’jin woke with a start.

 

“Git up, sleepin’ beauty,” U’thel growled. Vol’jin’s eyes tightened, but he pushed himself up on his arms anyway. The demon hunter must have kicked him in the side, if the ache in his ribs was anything to go by.

 

He met U’thel’s furious gaze with one of confusion - but then, the shadow hunter understood. Even in the darkness, he could make out the faint outline of a relatively simple glaive in U’thel’s right hand; his pulsating tattoos illuminated at least that much.

 

Tentatively Vol’jin got to his feet. U’thel held the glaive out to him. This must have been the one he had mentioned previously.

 

“We gonna’ start. I train in de dark early mornin’, _dat_ much should be obvious,” U’thel hissed, before turning to stalk off into the dark. Vol’jin followed as best he could, keeping his right hand slightly ahead of himself. The splotchy vision from his right eye still brought about a fury in him.

 

His ears picked up on the sound of clinking metal, and he hesitated. More of U’thel was illuminated now. He was wearing his armor, and his glaives were especially impressive in their brightness. He pointed at Vol’jin with one, “de only ting of you I be seein’ are dose damn eyes. We gonna’ start slow, bu’ you betta’ believe dat I have high ass expectations, _shadow huntah_. You should already be familiah wit a glaive. Mebbe not ones de size I have - not yet, anyway - bu’ one dat size? Should be easy fah you.”

 

Vol’jin felt his fingers twitch in nervousness - and over what? The fact that he was starting again? That U’thel had high expectations?

 

In the end, Vol’jin knew it didn’t matter. He didn’t know where U’thel’s fury came from this time, and it was most probable that he would never know. Without saying anything in response to U’thel, Vol’jin tested the reach of his temporary weapon. U’thel moved, and seconds later Vol’jin’s glaive was ticked by U’thel’s.

 

Vol’jin felt his wrist bend back. Even a blow as light as that, and U’thel was capable of that - certainly, Vol’jin wasn’t making an effort to hold his arm steady at the moment, but anyone who took U’thel for granted would very quickly lose an arm. The shadow hunter passed the glaive between both of his hands. U’thel patiently waited.

 

The weapon was larger than what Vol’jin was used to. As he ran a hand along the blade, he found it to have been put to good use. Its edges were dulled, and marred by nicks and breaks.

 

“I wondah,” Vol’jin mused, spinning the blade in his hand before letting it come to rest at his side, “how you gonna’ make sure I don’ be messing up, hm?”

 

“I be havin’ ears, Vol’ji,” U’thel replied, obviously gesturing to the appendage in question, “I’ll hear anytin’ ya do wrong. I be knowin’ _exactly_ how dese shitty tings should sound when dey cut through de air. I didn’ spend five years in Outland bidin’ my time. I know dis shit like de back of my fuckin’ hand.”

 

Vol’jin dipped his head in the most obvious nod he could manage, then delivered an upward slash with the glaive. His blow was swiftly deflected, and this time, he stiffened his arm. There was strength in his own grip despite the weakness in his muscles.

 

U’thel remained just out of cutting range, which made it easy for him to parry Vol’jin’s attempts, and left Vol’jin with little worry that he would accidentally harm his teacher. That wasn’t the point of the exercise.

 

He cut down diagonally, listening to the way the glaive whistled. Intrigued, he swept his arm up; U’thel leaned back, eyes following the glaive as it went. The sound had been different. It had been less.

 

“Makes a difference if dere be wind,” U’thel said, his eyes fixed back on Vol’jin. Again, Vol’jin nodded his head.

 

“When dere’s more light, you need to be showing me how de demon hunter moves,” Vol’jin mused, continuing his practice blows. The weight of the glaive was becoming easier to manage now, “because dere be two glaives, not one.”

 

The red grin on U’thel’s face seemed to broaden, and Vol’jin barely managed to block an overhand blow from the demon hunter; then he threw himself to the side, because while he hadn’t _seen_ U’thel’s arm move, the other man’s blades were so sharp he could almost feel the air part against them. Vol’jin barely managed to stay on his feet as he stumbled in the darkness.

 

Quickly he pivoted to face U’thel again, breathing as evenly as he could through his nose to keep oxygen flowing to his already aching muscles.

 

“You de quick learnin’ type eh, Vol’ji,” U’thel said. He didn’t move from his spot. Vol’jin remained tense, gripping the glaive with both hands now. U’thel pointed at him with one of his glaives, “is dat a shadow huntah ting? Ta hold de glaive wit bot’ hands?”

 

Vol’jin hesitated. U’thel surged forward, his stance low. Vol’jin blocked his first blow, and managed to twirl his glaive in a half-circle to parry the other as U’thel brought himself up and around in a circle. He slashed down; Vol’jin switched the glaive to his left hand, and part of it hooked on U’thel’s. It took great effort for Vol’jin to hold his stance, and the muscles in his left arm protested said effort.

 

He growled. U’thel snarled.

 

The demon hunter dropped, snapping out his leg. He swept Vol’jin’s feet out from under him, and the shadow hunter hit the ground with a loud thud, taking the brunt of the impact to his right shoulder. He closed his eyes tightly in pain before forcing them back open.

 

U’thel kicked him sharply in the left shoulder, forcing Vol’jin onto his back, then set his foot heavily against the shadow hunter’s chest.

 

“Focus, Vol’ji,” U’thel said, his voice low. The sun cracked past the horizon, barely illuminating U’thel’s form where his pulsing tattoos did not, “don’t get distracted by anything I say. You should know better than that. And demons? Demons like to talk. As much as you can use that against _them_ ,” he pressed the tip of his glaive to Vol’jin’s throat, reminding the shadow hunter of his encounter with Bwonsamdi, “they can use it against _you_.”

 

“I understand,” Vol’jin replied. U’thel seemed satisfied, and lifted his foot off Vol’jin’s chest.

 

“ _Good_ ,” he hissed, balancing both glaives against his shoulders and slipping back into Orcish, “you be keepin’ practicin’ den. Ya need some more time ta be gettin’ use ta dat glaive, particularly its weight. I’ll be seein’ if I can’t find anothah’ one. I had two old ones at some point; one o’ dem broke,” he shrugged, looking over his shoulder at Vol’jin as he turned, “ya body still be weak, bu’ ya be doin’ bettah den I be tinkin’. Ya bettah git as much rest as possible.”

 

Vol’jin sat up, letting one arm drape over his leg as U’thel walked away.

 

“Ya gonna’ need wateva’ strengt’ you can mustah ta train wit _me_.”

 

The red-haired troll sighed. He spent a few minutes listening to the nature around him. Seagulls above. Sea lions in the distance. The happy chirps of smaller birds.

 

The area was full of life despite the demonic presence.

 

It made Vol’jin wonder: if the animals of Azeroth showed no concern with the efforts of the Burning Legion, then why did he? Why did any of the races? Perhaps Azeroth’s creatures knew that they were well taken care of. He ran his palm over the blades of grass, letting them tickle his skin. What a difference it might make in his own life to have _that_ much faith - even just faith in himself.

 

He would do what U’thel said. Rest. Stretch. Test the weight of the glaive, strengthen his grip.

 

Meditating came to Vol’jin the quickest. It was no different from the time he spent doing a similar task in Pandaria. It developed into second nature by the time the week had passed. He continued to fish despite U’thel’s clear distaste for his fishing, and Vol’jin did it under the premise that it helped to strengthen his arms. Wrestling with any sharks that caught his line was the real reason behind his ventures. He’d already developed a habit of releasing the large fish after bringing them in, keeping the smaller ones for meals.

 

By the middle of the second week since he’d been revived, he was able to keep up with U’thel’s pace. He learned how to sweep around in a circle, cutting up with the glaive, then down. It was a different motion from what he was used to, but similar enough to pick it up rather easily.

 

U’thel seemed… pleased, to say the least.

 

But he also seemed lethargic, and pale.

 

 _Has he_ **_always_ ** _been this thin?_

 

Funny how the shadow hunter hadn’t noticed it before. U’thel’s skin stretched tight over muscle and bone - though the light fur he had growing from certain points on his body did a decent job at hiding the fact that his bones were visible under his skin.

 

A piece of fish hit Vol’jin square in the forehead. He closed his eyes on reflex, pressing his lips together in annoyance.

 

“De fuck you starin’ at, eh?”

 

Vol’jin pulled the fish away from his face before opening his eyes to give U’thel an unimpressed look - though really, he used the expression as an excuse to study U’thel’s features again. The demon hunter was guarded. His eyes were fuller with bottled up fury, as if he were a lit stick of dynamite that would explode if Vol’jin wasn’t careful with his words.

 

He tossed the fish back at U’thel, noting how U’thel straightened with distaste, though he caught the meat anyway. Vol’jin furrowed his brows. He sighed, playing off answering U’thel’s question, and turned his head to the left, leaving his mostly blind eye to ‘look’ at U’thel.

 

A sizzling sound reached Vol’jin’s ears. It made sense, now, why he often heard that sound whenever he turned his head to the left.

 

U’thel was discarding food in the fire. Which obviously meant he wasn’t eating.

 

Vol’jin turned his head back to his ‘superior’, “do you tink I be stupid?”

 

U’thel jolted, his expression shifting to one of mild surprise before he masked it once again with a glare, “wat?”

 

“You keep t’rowing tings in de fiah,” Vol’jin said flatly, pointing at the flickering flames, “I may be blind in dis eye, mon, but I don’ be deaf. Mebbe it be taking me awhile ta put two an’ two togeddah. You don’ be eating right.”

 

There was a twitch in U’thel’s eye.

 

“I be eatin’ jus’ fuckin’ _fine_ , Vol’ji.”

 

And there was the defensive tone - and now, the defensive posture. U’thel lowered his head. He glowered at Vol’jin from under his brows. Vol’jin narrowed his eyes.

 

A roasted seagull thudded against the ground at the mouth of the grove, still steaming after being struck by a bolt of lightning.

 

U’thel snarled in distaste, lurched to his feet, and disappeared into the tent. Vol’jin closed his eyes, sighing through his nose.

 

“I be knowing ya be wanting ta help,” he muttered when there was a familiar crackling sound nearby, “but you be making tings a lil’ more difficult fah me wit dat stunt, Shango.”

 

The crackling intensified, then died, and Vol’jin opened his eyes. He could hear U’thel muttering angrily to himself. A soft huff escaped Vol’jin.

 

_How does he manage to function so well when he’s been eating so little?_

 

The thought swirled around in Vol’jin’s mind with nagging insistence - but given U’thel’s previous reaction to Vol’jin expressing concern, the shadow hunter was forced to reconsider his options. He didn’t want to inadvertently chase U’thel out of the grove again - after all, the two were trying to keep themselves hidden from the Legion. If the demon hunter went on too many killing sprees in such quick succession, the demons may grow to realize that they were not as alone on the Broken Shore as they thought. They may begin to actively _look_ for the source of the massacres, instead of stubbornly believing it to be soldiers from Dalaran.

 

Vol’jin’s thoughts were brought once again back to U’thel’s eating habits - or rather, lack thereof. He eyed the bird that Shango had struck - and in a similar manner, was struck by a realization. Perhaps U’thel only consumed food when it was required for him to complete a task. He would have needed to eat in order to have the strength to reform Vol’jin’s body from quite literally nothing.

 

It was the most logical conclusion Vol’jin could come to without overstepping his bounds and pushing U’thel into what would clearly be an uncomfortable discussion. After a moment longer of staring into the fire, Vol’jin stood and approached the tent.

 

He was about to speak when soft, even breaths reached his ears.

 

U’thel had fallen asleep.

 

Vol’jin’s eyes tightened. Instead of going into the tent and rousing the younger troll, Vol’jin moved away. His gaze flicked to the entrance to the grove.

 

A short walk would do Vol’jin some good. He left after securing the old glaive to his back - though he hesitated a foot outside the grove. Vol’jin cast a tentative glance over his shoulder, in the direction of the tent.

 

No.

 

He didn’t want to wake U’thel up.

 

Vol’jin first wandered to the edge he was familiar with. It was the area behind the grove, where the shadow hunter often fished. He walked along the ledge, watching the water break against rock, then against sand as rocky shallows gave way to a beach. He watched the seagulls. Saw the silhouettes of sharks. He stayed there for several minutes, enjoying the sea breeze and the warm sun.

 

Then, he meandered in a direction he had seen U’thel go off in. There was an almost hidden pathway that led down to darkly colored rocks. Curious, Vol’jin cautiously made his way down. Nagging whisperings started churning in his mind, a mix of demonic phrases he couldn’t yet understand, and urges to turn back.

 

He hesitated at the opening of the path, resting one of his hands against the cold stone. It was as if someone had carved out the pathway, and done it at such an angle that when Vol’jin stepped down onto the wider path and turned around, he could hardly find where he had come down from.

 

Vol’jin winced, raising a hand to his bad eye. It had started throbbing, and the demonic whisperings grew louder. A shrill scream caused Vol’jin to jolt, and he staggered back toward the dark rocks that made up the wall of the wide path. The scream had come from within his mind.

 

 _Go back, go back, go back_.

 

Again, the demonic whisperings swelled and drowned out what Vol’jin could only acknowledge as a voice of reason. Still pressing his hand to his right eye, Vol’jin felt along the stone, hoping to find the path back to the grove.

 

 _Go back, go back,_ **_go back!_ **

 

Fingers curled around a corner, and just as he was about to turn onto what he believed to be the narrow pathway he’d come down, he was once again jolted by another shrill scream.

 

_Hide!_

 

Alarmed, Vol’jin shoved away from the stone wall. He could hear claws digging into dirt. He turned to his right, dropping his left hand away from his eye; he sprinted up the path, looked both ways, and dove behind a large rock to his left.

 

Too late, it seemed.

 

A felhound came snarling into view, and Vol’jin lurched around the rock. It must have caught his scent.

 

Easily dealt with, at least. He anticipated it would come from his left, and when it skidded around the corner, he grabbed it by the tendrils protruding from its back. It howled, then was reduced to bloody gurgles when he ripped off its lower jaw. He slammed its skull forcefully into the rock, crushing it under his palm.

 

The second felhound came from his right; Vol’jin vaguely registered that it had slashed his ribs before he could get a hold of it. This time he tore the head off, gritting his teeth in a soundless snarl.

 

He threw the head at something that came up on his left - a shriek of surprise met his ears, and then he loped the body at them too. A loud clang made Vol’jin’s ears ring, but he counted it a blessing that the felguard had misjudged his strike. With the axe momentarily stuck in the rock, Vol’jin yanked the glaive out of its sheathe, and drove it into the felguard’s side.

 

With a roar, the demon released his axe and grabbed Vol’jin around the neck. Vol’jin drove up with his glaive, cutting into the felguard’s chest and nearly severing the arm entirely. The demon stumbled and Vol’jin lurched away from the rock, intending to go back to the dirt road and find the hidden pathway - he found himself biting back a scream of pain when burning hot flames seared his spine.

 

He turned, fel eyes wild. He’d nearly forgotten about the Eredar. She seemed afraid when he turned to face her.

 

“... no…. _No!!_ A _demon hunter_?! Here!? No-- but vou are a troll!!”

 

How grateful Vol’jin was that she had decided to sputter in Common.

 

He had to silence her, before she ran off to the Legion’s main base of operations to inform them of his presence.

 

The glaive whistled as he threw it, with perfect accuracy, right at her head. The blade drove into her face, right between her eyes, and the force of the blow sent her back, her legs whipping into the air as she hit the ground with a sickening thud.

 

Music to Vol’jin’s ears, really.

 

Behind him, the felguard roared, and Vol’jin quickly threw himself forward and to the ground, narrowly dodging a downward swing from the demon. He rolled toward the downed Eredar, and ripped the glaive free of her skull just in time to follow through with the action to block the felguard’s fist.

 

Vol’jin’s body protested against his actions.

 

He had no choice but to run--

 

“Tell the others!” the felguard barked. Of course. The felhound’s howl would have alerted any other demons that something was amiss.

 

_Shit, shit, shit._

 

Vol’jin feigned to go to the right of the rock, then lurched to the left. The felguard that he’d cut slammed hard into the ground after diving to grab Vol’jin. The shadow hunter slipped around what he assumed was a wrathguard, and grabbed the Eredar with him by the tail, jerking the red skinned Draenei back. With what strength he could muster, Vol’jin threw him into the rock he’d tried to hide behind.

 

It cost him.

 

The wrathguard swung down with his sword, alight with fel fire, and though Vol’jin managed to twist his body to avoid getting his arm severed, the tip of the blade cut a fine line from Vol’jin’s collarbone to his abdomen. The shadow hunter stumbled and fell, and now the chattering of imps reached his ears. He bared his teeth in their direction, and struggled to get to his feet. The wrathguard brought his foot down with force on Vol’jin’s shoulder, forcing him back to the ground. He snarled, but found his actions now were futile.

 

“ _This_ must be the real reason we--”

 

A throwing glaive embedded itself in the wrathguard’s neck. Vol’jin’s eyes widened, and he strained his neck as he tried to look up at where he had come from. Another felguard had made his way to the group, and he was promptly crushed, skull pushed all the way through his body to the ground.

 

U’thel, face twisted in rage but eyes rounded by fear.

 

He had full wings protruding from his back. His body was larger, covered in what looked to be dark scales, feet hoofed, fingers ended with sharp claws and dressed in tattered skin as the young troll’s hands had changed from having three digits to having five. With one stomp he crushed the imps, and with a mighty flap of his wings he lunged for the wrathguard, tearing him in half with ease. The felguard Vol’jin had wounded was next.

 

And then, the demon hunter chased down the Eredar that Vol’jin had managed to daze.

 

The shadow hunter struggled to his feet. His injuries slowly became more obvious. Fractured shoulder. Broken ribs. Bleeding from the cut, and the scratches on his side, where the broken ribs were.

 

He staggered along, gritting his teeth, furious with himself for being so foolish as to think it would be perfectly _fine_ to wander off on his own. The thought of a demon patrol had _completely_ slipped his mind.

 

“Vol’ji? Vol’ji!”

 

Vol’jin was confused by not only the concerned tone to U’thel’s voice, but also by the underlying panic in it. He could hear U’thel coming back up the path - but he couldn’t make out the telltale sounds of armor or weapons. The young troll must have _just_ woken up.

 

Still, Vol’jin attempted to keep walking on his own. His body had other plans, unfortunately, and fatigue made him stumble. U’thel must have reached him because the former fisted a hand in Vol’jin’s hair, jerking him up. Vol’jin snarled at the pain; U’thel snarled right back.

 

He hefted Vol’jin onto his shoulder, and wrest the old glaive out of Vol’jin’s hand.

 

Then he started cursing excessively under his breath.

 

He was still in what was clearly a more demonic state, and with several beats of his wings, he made it up to the ledge he’d come down from. He hastily made his way back to the grove, cursing all the while, and all Vol’jin could do was reflect on what had happened. And wonder how U’thel had changed into this demonic form in the first place.

 

It seemed to be something U’thel couldn’t keep up for long, as seconds after setting foot in the grove, the form simply… dissipated. He unexpectedly dropped Vol’jin as he collapsed under the weight, yet another string of colorful words leaving his mouth, though he simply left Vol’jin on the grass and scrambled to his feet. Vol’jin focused on at least trying to push himself up into a sitting position.

 

The demon hunter returned after three minutes, dropping to his knees in front of Vol’jin. He grabbed Vol’jin’s arms, and despite the pain that shot through Vol’jin’s body, he let them rest over U’thel’s shoulders.

 

This kept them out of the way as U’thel went about tightly wrapping bandages around Vol’jin’s chest, then down to his waist. It covered the worst of the cut he had received, and the scratches - his bones protested, of course, but he knew they would heal in time. Next, U’thel inspected Vol’jin’s left shoulder. Vol’jin tightened his lips over his teeth; he ignored the pain that came with U’thel’s prodding. After all, he had easily resisted any desire to scream after cutting off his own thumb when he was younger. A fractured shoulder was nothing new.

 

U’thel sighed in what Vol’jin could only assume was relief, then set a raging gaze on Vol’jin. He looked as if he were going to say something - then his expression contorted, and he clapped a hand over his mouth before lurching to his feet. Vol’jin watched him stagger out of the grove, brows furrowed.

 

Retching reached his ears seconds later. It only made him feel all the more like a fool. He’d already established that U’thel was, if anything, malnourished.

 

 _It stands to reason that using that… demonic form be taxing on his body,_ Vol’jin slowly got to his feet, _he wouldn’t have anticipated me going off. He wasn’t prepared for that._

 

The sun was starting on its way down to the horizon. Vol’jin gazed at U’thel’s hunched over, heaving form before averting his gaze, feeling ashamed.

 

Finally, Vol’jin took the last few steps closer to U’thel.

 

“U’thel--”

 

“ _You,_ ” the demon hunter snarled, turning on Vol’jin while wiping angrily at his mouth, “what the _fuck_ do you be thinkin’, eh!? You coulda’ been killed!”

 

Vol’jin lowered his gaze, “I wasn’t. I went for a walk, and the idea of there being a patrol didn’t be crossing my mind.”

 

At the very least, his honest answer dispelled U’thel’s anger. The demon hunter blinked. He had expected an argument.

 

Unsure of how to continue, both trolls regarded each other silently. U’thel scratched his neck, then paced, then stomped back to the grove; Vol’jin followed him.

 

Vol’jin took a breath, “you be seemin’ worried, mon.”

 

U’thel tensed, “I be tellin’ you already, no? You coulda’ been fuckin’ killed.”

 

“Woulda’ been a weight off ya shouldahs,” Vol’jin countered, pressing his hand against his injured shoulder. U’thel turned slightly to face him. He stood within the grove, and Vol’jin, on the outside. The minutes ticked by with them merely staring at each other.

 

Until finally, part of the wall U’thel had put up cracked;

 

“I don’ wanna’ be alone again.”

 

His voice was small. Vol’jin stepped into the grove, and U’thel shuffled away, like a scared animal.

 

“Dat an’ if you be goin’ too far from de grove, and closah to dose demon machines… you be hearin’ de whispers more loudly.”

 

Oh. That explained why the whisperings were so much less audible to Vol’jin now. The moment he had stepped off the hidden pathway and onto that wider path, he had been assaulted by the whispers; loud, cacophonous, as if trying to drown out reason and draw him to the Legion.

 

It made sense. Demon hunters had to walk the thin line between being human, as it were, and demon - much like how shadow hunters walked the thin line between the shadows and the light.

 

“I didn’ give ya any tips on how ta ignore dem yet.”

 

“I be havin’ de Loa on my side,” Vol’jin mused, pulling his hand away from his shoulder, “it only be because o’ dem dat I even managed ta kill some o’ da demons.”

 

U’thel perked up at this, “hm. I guess you be right. Den mebbe ya don’ be needin’ my help wit dat.”

 

“You been a demon huntah much longah den me,” Vol’jin said, moving to stand beside U’thel, “I would be appreciatin’ ya wisdom even if it be seeming dat I alerady be knowing wat to do.”

 

U’thel stared up at Vol’jin quizzically, tilting his head to the side - then, he sighed, “ya gonna’ listen ta me, Vol’ji?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Den you be stayin’ here tomorrow. Ya gonna’ meditate. Ya gonna’ be readin’ my books, den I’mma be teachin’ ya how ta use dat forge. If ya gonna’ go off like dat, ya need ta be makin’ armor, and weapons. Ya gonna’ do it yaself, because I did.”

 

Vol’jin nodded, and U’thel continued, “so you be eatin’ sometin’, an’ go ta bed. We gonna’ do de usual routine, an’ den you _stay here_. I’mma be gone mosta’ de day, collecting wat demon armor I can. Mebbe Shango will be willin’ ta lend me his powah again, bu’ I be botherin’ him wit dat tomorrow.”

 

Again, Vol’jin nodded, and U’thel ambled off to where he had started keeping food. Part of Vol’jin wanted to bargain; that he would eat if U’thel did.

 

“You should be eatin’ sometin’ yaself,” he said instead, trailing after the demon hunter. U’thel scoffed, and Vol’jin pressed, “wat if someting like wat happened jus’ now, be happening again? Ya body ain’t in no condition. ‘Course I can’t be making you eat, Thel’ju. But you should.”

 

U’thel was silent. Vol’jin pulled a fish out of the woven basket. He made the fire, cooked the fish, and ate in silence until U’thel finally joined him with some water.


End file.
